Counting Coup
by Scullspeare
Summary: What seemed like a routine hunt, leaves Dean fighting for his life and Sam frantically trying to figure out what happened. And when he does, it's a big shock to both brothers. First published in the fanzine Brotherhood 8.
1. Chapter 1

_**SUMMARY**__: What seemed like a routine hunt, leaves Dean fighting for his life and Sam frantically trying to figure out what happened. And when he does, it's a big shock to both brothers. Set late in Season 2, but before the deal. Hurt/comfort-Mystery, playing with a loose thread from canon._

_**DISCLAIMER**__: The characters of Sam & Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke who entertains us each week and graciously lets us play in his sandbox when he turns out the lights and goes home for the night. (Or we sneak in when he's not looking, I'm not sure which.) Definitely for fun not profit._

_**RATING**__: T, for some language. _

_**A/N**__: This story first appeared in the fanzine Brotherhood 8, published in Spring 2009. At slightly more than 21,000 words, it seemed a bit wieldy for a one-shot. Still, some of you like to curl up with a meaty story – and avoid the cliffhangers! - while others prefer to enjoy in smaller portions. So, I've divided Counting Coup into three chapters, but am posting all three simultaneously so it can be read whichever way suits you best. I'm just thrilled you're reading it! It's definitely old-school Sam and Dean, before the deal and all its fallout drove a wedge between the brothers. I hope you enjoy._

**COUNTING COUP**

The glass ER doors slid open, and Sam's panicked shout quickly drew the attention of everyone sitting in the busy waiting room. "I need some help here!"

Dean was slumped against him, barely able to support his own weight, as they staggered inside. Sam had his brother's right arm across his shoulders, right wrist locked in his right hand and his left arm wrapped tightly around Dean's waist. Dean's feet were dragging along the floor as they slowly moved forward. His head hung down, chin on chest, his left arm falling limply at his side. Vomit stained the front of his shirt, and as they left the cold night air and entered the heated ER, the smell became increasingly noxious. Both brothers were filthy, dirt streaked across their faces, dust staining their hair and clothes. As the soft chatter quieted to silence and all eyes focused on them, Sam was acutely aware of Dean's rapid, shallow breathing.

A nurse and an orderly who had been conversing at the admissions desk moved quickly toward them. The orderly grabbed a gurney that was pushed against a wall and wheeled it toward the Winchesters. Slipping the brake on the wheels, he moved in to help lift Dean onto the stretcher.

Dean scowled as he sensed the stranger's approach, weakly pushing him away. His voice was raspy and barely audible, but his intent unmistakable. "Back off."

"Dean." Sam's voice was strained as he struggled to support his brother's muscular frame. "He's just trying to help."

Dean shook his head. "Don't want help." Bleary eyes turned toward Sam. "Bastard pushed you down the stairs." He coughed as he fought to draw in air, then turned to glare at the orderly. "Send him back to hell where—"

"It wasn't him," Sam interrupted. "He didn't push me. We—"

Dean's knees buckled without warning, and Sam grunted as he shifted his grip to support the additional weight. The orderly, a beefy guy about Dean's height with a shaved head and gold hoop earring, moved in again. This time there was no protest as he and Sam lifted Dean onto the stretcher. The orderly quickly raised the safety rails and stepped to the end of the gurney, allowing the nurse to move in on the opposite side to Sam.

Dean was clearly agitated, his head rolling back and forth, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His skin was flushed, his chest heaving. The fingers of his left hand clawed at his chest, as if pulling away his clothing might somehow make it easier to breathe.

"Exam Room 4." The nurse began efficiently assessing Dean's vitals even as the orderly released the brake and pushed the gurney out of the waiting room. She glanced at Sam, noting the dust and dirt that covered both brothers. "Were you in an accident?"

Dean was muttering incoherently, his fingers grabbing hold of Sam's jacket as his brother walked robotically beside the gurney.

"What?" Everything had happened so fast, Sam hadn't even had time to consider a cover story. He shook his head. "No. We, um, we're renovating."

"Did he fall?"

Fall wasn't quite the right word. The spirit had thrown him across the room. "Yeah, about half an hour ago. But he was acting strange before that."

"Strange how?" The nurse pulled out a penlight and shone it in Dean's eyes. Her patient scowled at the invasive light, weakly pawing at her hand to knock it away.

Sam reached over reflexively, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling it away from the nurse. "He was dizzy, stumbled a few times, said he had a headache—and that was before…he fell. Couldn't catch his breath, either. It's getting harder and harder for him to breathe."

The nurse's next question was blunt. "Drugs?"

"What?" Sam's gaze shifted from his brother to the nurse. He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

The nurse pocketed the light and examined Dean's nose and mouth as they moved down the hallway. "Drugs, prescription or otherwise—did he take anything?"

"No." Sam's eyes widened at the suggestion. "No!" He held on to the gurney rail, his brother's hand still fisted in his jacket, as Dean was pushed toward a curtained cubicle.

The nurse pulled aside the curtain and the gurney was rolled into the center of the space. She looked again at Sam as she reached for an oxygen mask and cranked open a valve on the wall. "Any allergies?"

"No."

"Any history of respiratory illness?"

"No."

Any preexisting medical conditions?"

"No."

Dean was struggling to sit up. Sam placed his hand on his brother's chest. "Keep still. Let them help you." He swallowed as he watched the nurse place the oxygen mask over Dean's face, his brother's frown at the intrusion clearly visible even as the mask fogged up with his first exhale. Sam looked up at the nurse, fear etched plainly across his face. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's not getting enough oxygen. We just have to figure out why." The nurse, a pretty 30-something woman, her long red hair pinned into a loose twist at the nape of her neck, glanced up at the orderly. "Get Dr. Peters. STAT. And page Dr. Chow."

The orderly nodded, offering Sam a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left the cubicle, pulling the curtain closed after him.

The nurse turned to Sam. "His name is Dean?"

Sam nodded.

The nurse held Dean's face gently in her hands. "Dean, I'm Amy. We're gonna do everything we can to help you feel better. First, I want you to concentrate on your breathing. Slow it down. Can you do that?"

Dean blinked at her, vacantly. His breathing remained rapid and shallow.

Amy looked up at Sam. "And you are—?"

"Sam. Dean's my brother." He glanced down at Dean. The illness, or whatever it was, had hit so hard, so fast, it had left Sam reeling. He'd cared for Dean when he had a fever, nursed him through the confusion of a concussion or pain of physical injuries, but this…Dean had gone from grumpy to completely incapacitated in the space of minutes. "You gotta help him."

Amy voice softened. "We will, Sam. Were you working with any chemicals?"

"No." Sam watched as Amy fastened a clip to Dean's finger, then cut open his stained t-shirt to attach electric leads to his chest. A monitor beside the gurney started beeping immediately. Sam didn't need a medical degree to know Dean's heart was beating way too fast. "There was lots of dirt, dust, but no chemicals."

Sam rested his hand on Dean's chest, just below his heart. "He was grabbing at his chest…" Panic clouded Sam's eyes as they jumped again from his brother to the nurse. "It can't be a heart attack…can it? He's not even 30…"

Sam flashed back to when Dean had been electrocuted battling the rawhead. The same terror he felt then, after finding his brother unconscious in that basement, after being told there was nothing doctors could do to save him, ripped through him now. Again Dean was lying helpless in a hospital, again Dean was struggling simply to breathe. This time there was no electrocution to blame, but what if those earlier doctors had missed something? Some damage that only now… No. He shook his head. Dean had seemed fine right up until they'd gone after the spirit.

Mentally sorting through everything that had happened, Sam missed most of what the nurse said next. "…it could be any of those things. Age is just one factor." She studied Dean's stained shirt. "When did he throw up?"

"In the car on the way over here." Sam cringed as he said it, knowing how pissed Dean would be when he got better and realized he'd puked all over the Impala. _When he got better?_ The phrase came so naturally to Sam. Dean had to get better. He had to.

"Was there blood in the vomit?"

Sam froze at the question. He had been behind the wheel, flying down rural roads and town streets well above the speed limit en route to the hospital when Dean had gotten sick. His brother had been slumped against the passenger door, forehead pressed against the glass, when he'd groaned, fallen forward, and thrown up all over the dashboard, the passenger seat, and himself. The fact Dean hadn't asked Sam to pull over, hadn't made any attempt to stop himself from puking inside the car told Sam it was bad. But as for blood? "I dunno. It was dark. I pulled over, made sure he wasn't choking, but…"

Dean's head rolled listlessly, unfocused eyes looking up at Sam, his breathing rattling audibly from behind the oxygen mask. Sam's breathing sped up in time with his brother's as he looked from Dean to the nurse. "What the hell is it?"

"I know it seems like a lot of questions and no answers, Sam, but it's all information we need to try to figure out what's wrong." Amy expertly rolled Dean onto his side to remove his shirt and pull away the t-shirt she'd cut open earlier, depositing the clothes in a plastic bag on the counter at the back of the cubicle. Dean's jeans, boots, and socks were the next to go. Amy then peeled off her plastic gloves and tossed them in a waste container before opening a cupboard and pulling out a blanket. She unfolded the blanket over Dean, pulling it up over his chest. "The oxygen seems to be helping. That's a good start."

Sam nodded, for the first time realizing his brother was shivering. Dean's eyes blinked slowly, revealing the glassy irises beneath. His focus settled on Sam, and he shook off the blanket to reach up and fumble with the oxygen mask. His words were slurred, unintelligible.

"Dean, no." Sam pulled his brother's hand away from his face and slid the oxygen mask back into place. He frowned as his hand brushed against Dean's cheek. His skin was bright pink but felt cool and clammy to the touch. Sam shot a worried look at the nurse as he pulled the blanket back into place. "He looks like he has a fever but his skin's cold."

Amy was fastening a blood pressure cuff around Dean's biceps. "His body's not processing oxygen properly." She looked up at Sam as she pumped up the cuff. "What were you renovating?"

Sam swallowed. "The old Barnstable House. We were, um, doing some demolition. Why?"

Amy checked the gauge on the blood pressure cuff, and jotted down the numbers on a chart she'd started for Dean. "Given the sudden onset of symptoms, we have to consider environmental factors. He could have touched something toxic, ingested something, even inhaled it. What's your last name?"

"Young." Sam's heart was pounding rapidly now. "You think he was poisoned?"

Amy put down the chart and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, fastened a tourniquet around Dean's arm, then swabbed the skin near the crook of his elbow with antiseptic. "We won't know for sure until we do some tests, but it's a possibility." She glanced up at Sam as she reached for a syringe to draw blood. "The Barnstable House—it's over a hundred years old, right?"

"Yeah."

There was no reaction from Dean as Amy slid the needle into a vein, the vial attached to the syringe quickly filling with blood. She popped out the vial, capped it, and inserted another. "While you were knocking things down, were you wearing masks?" Amy glanced up to see Sam shake his head. "Were you and your brother in separate parts of the house?"

Again, Sam shook his head.

"And when did he last eat?"

Sam glanced at his watch. "Just before we went to the house. Couple hours ago, maybe less."

"Did you both eat the same things?"

Sam nodded. "For once, yeah."

Amy frowned. "How 'bout you? How're you feeling?"

Sam's headache had climbed a notch or two since entering the hospital, but he dismissed that as worry over Dean. "M'okay."

The nurse raised a gloved hand and pointed at Sam's head. "You do know you're bleeding?"

Sam's hand jumped to his head, wincing at the torn skin he found there and the blood matted in his hair. "Oh. I, um, walked into a door frame."

Amy's frown deepened. "Your brother said you were pushed down the stairs."

Sam swallowed. Amy was sharp, which told him his brother was in good hands, but he'd have to watch his step. "Like I said, he's not making sense. He's mixing things up…"

The curtain to the cubicle was pulled back and a doctor stepped inside. He was tall, just an inch or so shorter than Sam, in his 50s, and his thick, dark hair was shot through with gray. "I'm Mike Peters." He nodded at Sam then turned his attention to Dean. "Amy?"

The nurse quickly briefed the doctor. "Male, late twenties, tachycardic…shallow breath sounds…mental confusion…vomiting…blood gases are…"

"Doc, please. You gotta—" Sam took a step forward, and the room suddenly folded in on itself. He stumbled as the wave of dizziness hit, grabbing for the railing on Dean's gurney to steady himself.

The doctor moved in quickly. "Whoa, steady now. Let's get you sitting down."

Sam swallowed, the dizziness passing quickly. "I'm okay." He tried to push away from Dr. Peters, who had one arm around his waist, the other on his elbow. "Look, I walked into a door frame while I was working. It's nothing."

Dr. Peters smiled but maintained his grip, shepherding Sam across the room. "Occupational hazard for us tall guys, huh? I still want you to sit down. Here." He pulled open the curtain that separated Dean's exam room from the adjacent one and guided Sam to the empty gurney in the middle of the cubicle. "Sit here. Dr. Chow will come in and check you out but, in the mean time, you can still keep an eye on…?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"My brother. Dean's my brother." Assisted by the doctor, Sam reluctantly pulled himself up onto the gurney. Once Sam was settled, Dr. Peters returned to Dean's side and began his examination, conversing quietly with Amy and another doctor who had just entered the exam room.

Running his fingers absently over the gash in his forehead, eyes locked on Dean, Sam fought to quell building worries that his dizzy spell was more than just fallout from his own tangle with the spirit. Any time one of them was hospitalized, they were vulnerable; if both of them went down … Sam exhaled audibly. No - he'd be fine. They both would.

"Hey, there." Sam jumped when he realized that Dr. Chow, a petite Asian woman in her 40s, was now standing beside him. "Sam, is it?"

He nodded.

The doctor smiled. "Well, that should be easy to remember."

Sam glanced at the doctor's nametag: it read "Samantha Chow, MD." He smiled despite his worry, Dean's voice sounding clearly in his head. _Hey, meet my brother—his name's Samantha, too_. His focus quickly returned to Dean, who lay with his head turned away from Sam, his chest still heaving noticeably. "My brother—how is he?"

Dr. Chow turned Sam's head back toward her, flashing a penlight in his eyes. "He's in good hands. We're doing everything we can to make him comfortable while we figure out what's making him ill. You still feel dizzy?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I just turned too fast."

Dr. Chow nodded, picking up a blood pressure cuff. "Hopefully, that's all it is, but let's make sure. Take off your jacket and long-sleeved shirt, please." Sam shrugged them off quickly, and the doctor efficiently but thoroughly moved through the examination. She frowned as she walked behind Sam and lifted his t-shirt to listen to his lungs. Bruises in deep shades of blue, black, and purple painted his back. "How did you get these?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I fell down some stairs yesterday. It's nothing."

The doctor raised an eyebrow but made no comment. She lowered his shirt, draped her stethoscope around her neck, and picked up Sam's chart to make a few more notations. "Well, aside from a slight concussion from the blow to the head, you're doing well. Your heart rate's strong, lungs are clear." She glanced over at Dean. "Still, I'm going to ask Amy to come over and take some blood. Make sure there are no surprises."

Sam frowned. "You just said I'm fine."

Dr. Chow crossed her arms. "The two of you were working together. The sample won't just help us make sure you're okay—it may help us figure out what's wrong with Dean."

That changed things. Sam nodded. "Sure. Anything if it'll help him."

Dr. Chow crossed the exam room and returned to Dean's bedside, taking Sam's chart with her. After a brief exchange with Amy, the two doctors resumed discussing their patients.

Amy threw out her surgical gloves, opened a cupboard, pulled out a set of scrubs and a plastic bag, then walked over to Sam. She placed the scrubs on the gurney beside him. "I want you to change into these and put all your clothes in the plastic bag."

Sam shook his head. "I'm okay, really. It's Dean we need—"

"Sam." Amy pulled the privacy curtain, then reached for a fresh pair of gloves, a tourniquet, and a syringe. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're filthy. I have no idea what you're covered in and any of it could be making Dean sick. It could make you sick too if you're exposed to it long enough. Please, just put on the scrubs. We'll send your clothes down to the lab for testing, see if they yield any clues."

Sam stared down at his stained jeans, then nodded, grabbing the collar of his t-shirt and yanking it over his head. If the dirt or dust was making Dean sick, he didn't want it anywhere near his brother. He shoved his shirts and jacket into the plastic bag. Boots, socks and jeans quickly followed. He pulled on the blue scrub pants and top, then sat down again while Amy took a sample of blood.

When she was done, he pushed himself off the gurney, pulled open the curtain and walked over to Dean's bedside.

His brother blinked sluggishly, his chest occasionally arching as he struggled to pull in a deep breath, but his breathing seemed to have eased a little. Sam looked up, his gaze traveling from one doctor to the other. "If it's something we touched or inhaled, why am I okay and Dean's…" he swallowed, "…like this."

Dr. Peters frowned as he checked the monitor. "At this point, I don't know. He might have gotten a stronger dose, it might be an allergic reaction… When we know what he's reacting to, we'll have a better idea."

Even semi-conscious, Dean's hand clawed at his chest, threatening to pull off the electric leads tracking his heart. Sam pulled Dean's arm back to his side, his hand staying gripped around his brother's a little longer than necessary.

He stared down at Dean, replaying the events of the past 24 hours over and over, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean threw back the lid of the casket and wrinkled his nose at the all-too-familiar smell. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing dirt with sweat, as he looked down at the remains of Reginald Barnstable.

After almost a century, there was little left of the founding father of Edgeport, Maine. Scraps of cloth were stuck to the bones, and a gold ring that had slipped from the fingers of his skeletal hand lay beside him in the gray dust that littered the inside of the casket.

Dean shook his head as he reached up to take the canister of salt from Sam. "You'd never guess he was once the richest son of a bitch in town."

Sam nodded, shifting his grip on his shotgun as he warily glanced around the cemetery. "Like the proverb says, when the game's over, the king and the pawn go in the same box."

Dean shot Sam a look. "I think the problem here is Reggie's out of his box. We need to shove him back in and slam the lid."

After sprinkling the salt over the remains, he tossed the container aside and turned to take the can of gasoline his brother offered next. Dousing the interior of the casket, Dean stared again at Reginald's skull, trying to imagine the industrial baron who had guiltlessly mowed down almost everyone he met in the quest to build his fortune.

Following his death, Reginald's angry spirit had picked up where the man left off. Family journals detailed dozens of bizarre accidents at the Barnstable House, an imposing Victorian mansion sitting high atop a cliff on the outskirts of town. Over the years, Reginald's attacks had become increasingly violent as he lashed out over real or perceived mismanagement of the family fortune.

Elliot Barnstable, the last surviving member of the family, had inherited the property from his great aunt ten years earlier. Aware of its "unlucky" reputation and the ghost stories handed down over the generations, he had put up the house for sale. There had been plenty of offers, from hotel chains, movie stars, and dot-com millionaires, but all had fallen through thanks to mysterious accidents that plagued potential buyers and their representatives while inspecting the property.

Increasingly desperate to unload the house, and the million-dollar tax bills that came with it, Elliot was willing to try almost anything to get rid of the spirit. He had held a séance to ask Reginald to leave, had the house blessed to try to force him out, and even asked a local witch to perform a banishing ritual. Nothing had worked. Then the Winchesters had gotten a call…and the offer of a hefty paycheck if they could cleanse the house for good.

Dean hauled himself out of the grave, brushed the dirt from his hands, and reached into his pocket for a book of matches. He stared down at the remains, eyes flashing. "End of the line, Reggie. Consider this your eviction notice."

"Wait." Sam's hand stopped him as he moved to strike the match.

Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam stepped closer to the edge of the grave, staring intently at the remains. "What's wrong with this picture?" He pulled his flashlight from his pocket, clicking it on and shining the beam around the interior of the casket. "Remember how Reginald died?"

"Yeah. He fell off his horse and..." Dean's eyes widened. "Oh. Son of a bitch."

Reginald had been thrown from his horse while hunting and broken his right arm. It was a bad break that quickly became infected. Doctors amputated the limb, but the infection had spread and Reginald died shortly after surgery.

The remains they were looking at, however, were of a man with two arms. His right arm was half-hidden in shadow, but both arms were nonetheless intact.

Sam tucked his shotgun under his arm and pulled a piece of paper from his jacket. Shining the flashlight on the paper to read it, he shook his head. "It's a double plot, reserved for Reginald and his wife, Celia. She chose to be cremated, so Reginald should be the only one in here, but that," he shone his flashlight on the remains, "can't be him." Sam sighed. "Maybe the undertakers screwed up, mixed up the bodies."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Damn it, I knew this job was goin' too smooth."

Sam blew out a breath, clicking off the flashlight and shoving it back in his pocket. "We'll just have to go through the family records one more time. See if—"

"First things first." Dean moved forward, struck a match, then held the flame to the rest of the matches so the whole book flared. He then dropped the matches into the open grave and the gas-soaked casket ignited with a loud _whumph_. "On the off chance the medical records were wrong and this _is_ Reggie, I'm not diggin' this hole again."

The flickering light from the flames dancing across his face, Dean's jaw clenched noticeably. "I say we go to the house. Run the EMF over the place. If Reggie's toast, the place should be nice and quiet. If some other dude is subletting his casket…"

Sam finished his thought. "…then Reginald's spirit will still be around and we're back to square one."

Dean bent to pick up a shovel, waiting for the flames to die out so they could fill in the grave. "One of these days, an easy job will actually turn out to be an easy job."

Sam smiled softly as he swapped his shotgun for a shovel. "Don't count on it. I think we're on a Do Not Call list for easy jobs."

Three hours later, the Impala was rumbling up the winding driveway to the sprawling Barnstable House. Designed to impress, the forty rooms of the Victorian mansion were spread over four stories, most offering breathtaking views of the rugged Maine coastline. Towers and gables, elaborately trimmed in spires and fretwork, disappeared into the leafy canopies of the stately elms and maples that edged the property. A covered veranda spanned the width of the house, a peaked roof in the middle covering a wide set of steps that led up to the oversized front doors.

But neglect had taken a hefty toll. More than one shutter hung loose, and several of the upper windows were cracked or boarded up. Clapboard siding, once stained a deep red, was faded and peeling; tiles were missing from the dark roof and bricks were falling loose from the massive chimneys that climbed four stories high on each end. Formal flower beds that lined the veranda were a tangled mass of weeds, and the grass on the expansive lawns was knee-high.

Dean whistled as he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the house. "She must have been somethin' in her day, huh?"

Sam nodded as he pushed open the car door, stepped out, and stretched to ease muscles stiffening after hours of grave digging. "Yeah…but something tells me if we were visiting back then, we'd be going in through the doors for the hired help."

The hinges of the driver's door groaned loudly as Dean slammed it shut. Walking around to pop open the trunk, he looked down at his filthy clothes. "Dressed like this, you might be right." He grinned as he reached for his shotgun. "But give me a hot shower, clean clothes and five minutes with a Barnstable daughter, and I'd be goin' through the front doors and sitting down to dinner with the family."

Sam shook his head as he grabbed his shotgun and dug out the EMF detector, shoving the latter in his pocket. "The last Barnstable daughter was born in 1918. Even for you, that might be pushing things a bit."

Dean considered that as he slammed shut the trunk. "A bit." His grin returned. "More your type, cougar hound." He snorted, then moved off toward the house.

Sam's bitchface was wasted on the back on Dean's head as he fell in step behind his brother.

The front steps, warped and twisted, groaned loudly as the brothers climbed toward the main doors. Dean stepped onto the veranda and a rotten plank gave way beneath his boot. He yanked his foot back, testing his next step before shifting his weight. "Whatever entrance we're using, this place is definitely past its best-by date."

Sam shrugged. "Plenty left worth salvaging…as long as you've got deep pockets."

Dean shook his head as he crossed to the front doors. "All I care about is that Elliot's pockets are deep enough to forward a few thousand bucks our way." He turned to grin back at Sam. "Feels good to get paid for a little ghostbustin' for a change."

Sam frowned as he pulled out the key Elliot had couriered to them. "I still think it's weird he contacted us. We're not exactly at the top of some 'Who you gonna call' list."

"Whatever. It's a short list." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, sending a cloud of dirt into the air. He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face exaggeratedly. "Don't punch a gift horse in the mouth, Pig-Pen. We need the cash." He pointed to the door knob. "Come on, let's see if anyone's home."

Sam turned the key and pushed open the door, neglected hinges squealing loudly. He stepped inside, dropped the key back in his pocket and pulled out the EMF detector, scanning the front foyer.

Dean followed right behind him, glancing at the EMF. "I don't hear anything."

Sam shook his head. "No. So far, nada."

"Good." Dean squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Early morning light was fighting its way past the years of dirt and grime that coated the large windows, but much of the house was still in shadow.

The brothers were standing in a wide, two-story foyer in the center of the house. Two sets of double doors to twin reception rooms flanked the foyer, while the hallway stretched out toward the back of the house. The main staircase was to their right, running straight up to a landing that ran the width of the hall. Stairs at the left end of the landing continued up to the second floor.

Sam peered up the stairs. The wall at the back of the landing extended six feet up, then was topped by a railing that framed the second floor hallway beyond. Early morning sunlight spilled in through a large, stained glass window at the back of the upstairs hall, dust dancing in the colored beams of light that played on the walls and ceiling. He turned to Dean. "Main floor first or start at the top?"

Dean grinned. "Don't know 'bout you, Sammy, but workin' from the top down is always my first choice."

Sam ignored the crack, pushing past his brother to climb up the stairs. The EMF crackled but otherwise stayed silent.

Dean fell in step behind Sam, fingers reflexively clenching his shotgun. He shook his head as he looked around; most of his life had been spent in motel rooms and the Impala—spaces dwarfed by even the smallest rooms in the Barnstable House. "Can you imagine living here? It's like half a block from one end of the house to the other, and that hallway down there is wider than most roads in this neck of the woods." He glanced over the railing into the foyer below, the corners of his mouth twitching mischievously. "Betcha I could drive my car down that hall. If I—"

"Dean." Sam kept his eyes on the EMF as he crossed the landing and headed for the second flight of stairs.

Dean sighed. "You're right, I'd just screw up the alignment getting her up the front steps, anyway."

Batting away giant cobwebs as they made their way to the top floor, the brothers began a room-by-room sweep of the house. Many of the rooms were empty but some still held once grand furniture that now sat covered in thick dust or large, white dust sheets. Portraits of Barnstable ancestors stared down at them menacingly from the walls, eyes seemingly tracking them as they searched.

An hour later, they were back on the second floor, near the top of the stairs.

Dean nodded approvingly. "Three down, one to go. If we—"

The high-pitched wail of the EMF cut him off. Sam's eyes darted around the upstairs hall as he shoved the EMF in his pocket and raised his shotgun.

Dean took a step closer to Sam, both hands now on his gun. He shot a look at his brother, annoyed more than startled. "Son of a bitch."

Sam shivered as the temperature dropped suddenly. It was his only warning before he was viciously shoved. He fell backward, seemingly in slow motion, his arms windmilling to try to save himself but unable to fend off gravity. He toppled back, crashing into the staircase railing, which shattered under his weight.

Sam heard Dean yell his name almost the same second he realized he was going over the edge and falling toward the downstairs hallway. He landed hard on his back, grunting loudly as the impact drove the air from his lungs. His vision slid out of focus as his head slammed into the floor and pain exploded behind his eyes. He was only vaguely aware of Dean's blurry form hovering way above him before unconsciousness reached out and pulled him under.

_**Continued in Chapter 2**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**SUMMARY**__: __What seemed like a routine hunt, leaves Dean fighting for his life and Sam frantically trying to figure out what happened. And when he does, it's a big shock to both brothers. Set late in Season 2, but before the deal. Hurt/comfort-Mystery, playing with a loose thread from canon._

_**DISCLAIMER**__: The characters of Sam & Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke who entertains us each week and graciously lets us play in his sandbox when he turns out the lights and goes home for the night. (Or we sneak in when he's not looking, I'm not sure which.) Definitely for fun not profit._

_**RATING**__: T, for some language. Set late in Season 2, but before the deal._

**COUNTING COUP**

**CHAPTER 2**

"SAM!" Dean watched horrified as his brother was pushed and fell, diving forward to try to pull him to safety but grabbing only air as Sam smashed through the railing and tumbled out of reach.

Dean looked down and his stomach lurched. Sam lay on his back on the landing six feet below, head turned to the side, eyes closed. Blood stained the side of his face.

Heart pounding, Dean scrambled to his feet and turned to run down the stairs but skidded to an abrupt stop as the spirit of Reginald Barnstable materialized suddenly in front of him. Dark eyes flashed at Dean from under heavy eyebrows and the spirit's cruel mouth curled into a sneer behind a close-cropped mustache and goatee.

Dean froze, each exhale frosting in front of him, as Reginald moved toward him. The spirit's eyes narrowed. "You have no business here. I want you out of my house."

Hunter and spirit reacted simultaneously, Dean raising his gun and squeezing the trigger even as a blast of cold energy picked him up and threw him across the hall. He slammed into the wall on the far side, shattered plaster raining over him, and crumpled to the floor as Reginald's spirit dissipated in a shower of rock salt.

Dean grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet, coughing up plaster dust. His vision blurred and he stumbled, grabbing the wall behind him for balance. He waved away the dust as his vision slid back into focus.

"Sam?" His voice was thick and rough. He coughed again and staggered forward to look down the stairs. Sam hadn't moved; he still lay sprawled on his back, one leg bent under him. "Sammy?"

Dean half ran, half fell down the eight steps to the landing. Dropping to his knees at his brother's side, he put down his shotgun and pressed his fingers against Sam's neck, exhaling in relief when they found a strong and steady pulse. His eyes and his hands then quickly scanned his brother, assessing the severity of every cut and bruise he found and searching for any broken bones. The most obvious injury was a deep gash over Sam's temple where his head had caught the edge of the newel post. Blood matted his hair and mixed with dirt and dust down the side of his face.

Dean's gaze darted to Sam's face as his brother groaned softly. "Sammy? You in there?"

Sam's eyes slid open and he looked around dazedly. "Dean?"

"Right here." Dean held his brother's head still. "I need you to look at me. How many of me are there?"

Sam squinted at Dean, then screwed his eyes closed. "One—that's enough." He groaned again as he tried sitting up.

"Whoa, whoa." Dean gently pressed a hand on Sam's chest, holding him down. "Before you start movin' around, how bad is it? And no brave-little-soldier bullshit, either."

Sam opened one eye and frowned at Dean. "Ow."

Dean's eyebrow quirked, then he smiled at their childhood shorthand for rating severity of injuries. "Ow" was a step up from "Ouch," a step below "Damn it," and a long way from "Fuck," the latter reserved for only the most severe injuries and about the only time use of the word didn't result in a cuff behind the ear if their dad was in earshot.

"Okay, 'Ow' we can handle." He turned to look at Sam's feet. "Move your toes."

Sam scowled. "I'm fine. I—"

Dean cut him off. "Gotta rule out back injuries, Sammy. You know the drill. Now, feet."

Sam sighed, moving his right foot up and down, then slowly straightening his left leg.

Dean nodded approvingly. "Good." His gaze slid up to Sam's arms. "Hands."

Sam curled his fingers into fists, but left each middle finger extended.

Dean bit back a smile. "You suck at being a good patient, you know that?"

"Yeah, I learned from the best." Sam raised a hand toward Dean. "Help me up."

Dean nodded slowly. "Fine, but if anything's off, I wanna know about it."

Sam grimaced as Dean sat him up. He grabbed his brother's shirt to steady himself until a wave of dizziness passed, then patted Dean on the chest in thanks. "Who, or what, pushed me?"

Dean frowned as he inspected the gash on Sam's head. "It was definitely Reggie. And you know what that means."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. That wasn't him in the casket."

"Exactly. So we've got our work cut out for us." Dean pulled himself to his feet, then moved behind Sam and slid his arms around him. "But, for now, let's get outta here before Reggie shows up again. You ready to try standing?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay. On three. One…two…three."

Sam pushed himself to his feet, with Dean holding him steady. He swayed a little but held his balance even when Dean let go.

"You good?" Dean studied his brother closely.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Let's go." Despite his bravado, Sam had a tight grip on the railing. He glanced down at the foyer below. "Guess I'm lucky I landed here rather than down there, huh?" The foyer was another ten feet below the landing, its marble floor a lot less forgiving than the worn but thick Persian rug Sam had fallen on.

Dean shot his brother a look as he bent down to pick up the EMF and his shotgun. "Only you would find an up side to being tossed down the stairs." He spotted Sam's gun three stairs down, glancing around suspiciously as he moved to retrieve it. He frowned at Sam's stiff gait as his brother moved past him down the stairs toward the front hall. "You're walking like you're seventy."

Sam kept moving, albeit slowly. "It's nothing a hot shower won't fix. Now come on—we've got a pile of research to do."

Dean's face fell as he followed his brother. "This job just keeps getting better."

Dean kept his shotgun at the ready, not letting down his guard until they were both in the Impala, the Chevy kicking up gravel as it sped down the long driveway toward the road.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam pushed open the door to the diner. Dean was already seated in a booth by the window, chatting animatedly with the waitress, Eve. It was the fourth time they'd eaten at this diner since arriving in town, and the food, while good, was definitely not the main attraction for his brother.

Sam frowned as he stepped inside, an eerie chill creeping up his spine. He shuddered as he glanced around, the feeling of unease growing steadily. It was dinner hour, so the place was busy, full of young couples meeting up after work, teens grabbing a bite before heading to a movie and a trucker or two taking a much-needed break from behind the wheel.

Nothing seemed out of place, but still, something felt…off. Sam's "spidey senses," as Dean called them, were rarely baseless, but here, now, he couldn't peg what had triggered them. Puzzled, he crossed the restaurant to Dean.

After leaving the Barnstable House, the brothers had returned to their motel, showered quickly, then tumbled into bed just as most people were heading off to work. As much as Sam wanted to head straight to the library, he put up little resistance when Dean insisted they get a few hours shut-eye first. It was early afternoon when they woke up. Sam's headache had receded, but he was still moving stiffly thanks to bruising that now covered his back from shoulder blades to waist.

Following a breakfast of coffee and painkillers, the brothers had agreed to split up to try to figure out where Reginald had been buried. Sam headed to the local library to study Barnstable journals archived there, comparing the information they contained with that in the thick file of family papers sent to them by Elliot Barnstable. Dean visited the town records department, the local funeral home, whose ads bragged that it had been "Serving you in your time of need for 125 years," and the Edgeport Historical Society. When Dean was done, he'd called Sam, who'd suggested they meet up at the diner, which was walking distance from the library.

Sam slid into the booth opposite Dean, nodding at Eve. "Hey."

Dean grinned. "'Bout frigging time, Sammy. I'm starving."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're always starving, Dean."

Eve, a petite brunette, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail and thick bangs falling over big brown eyes, laughed. "That's what I like to hear. It's good for business." She turned to Sam, her smile fading almost imperceptibly. "Coffee?"

Sam nodded, frowning slightly as he turned over his cup. Eve filled it, then topped up Dean's, her smile widening again as she turned back to the elder Winchester. "Now that you're both here, I'll tell the cook to get your dinner started." She turned and headed for the kitchen, Dean following her movements appreciatively.

Sam took a sip of his coffee. "You ordered for me?"

Dean nodded, still watching the waitress walk away. "Eve recommended the fried chicken."

Sam shook his head. "Something tells me if she recommended squid, that's what we'd be eating."

Dean turned back to Sam, frowning. "What? They don't have squid."

"Never mind." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache that had never really gone away since his tumble down the stairs ratcheted up a notch.

Dean worriedly took in the tension in Sam's face, the tightness around his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I…" Sam looked up to see Dean studying him intently. He sighed, rubbing his temples, trying to push back the sense of unease he couldn't shake. "Just a headache." He pulled a book from inside his jacket. "The good news is I think I've got a clue as to where Reginald is buried."

Dean frowned at the obvious diversion but let it go. "Go on."

Sam gestured with the book. "This is Celia Barnstable's diary from the year her husband died." He opened it to a marked page. "A few days after Reginald's death she wrote, '_This past week has been the hardest of my life. My sons are already moving on, but there is a gaping chasm in my heart I fear will never be filled. I need Reginald's presence to fuel my strength, to help me to keep going_.'"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Why do chicks get all flowery like that? Why couldn't she just write 'I miss the old bastard. Wish he was still around.'"

"You have a real way with words, Dean." Sam turned to a second marked page and cleared his throat. "Six weeks later, something had definitely changed. She writes, '_So many times I feared discovery, feared my sons would uncover the truth of my plans and try to stop me, but they are too wrapped up in petty battles over their inheritances to pay me much mind. I know Reginald would approve. His money has been used to reunite us and to buy the continued silence of those who helped restore his rightful place here within his beloved home_.'"

Dean sat back. "Okay. So she had him moved back to the house. Think maybe there's a family cemetery or crypt somewhere on those overgrown grounds?"

Sam shook his head. "No. All the Barnstables are either buried in the cemetery where Reginald should be, or their ashes interred in a mausoleum near the cemetery gates. And from what Celia wrote in her diary, her sons knew nothing about her plans. If she was doing something out in the open, they would have seen what was going on."

Sam closed the diary and put it down on the table. "Celia writes about how nice it is to be able to visit him, talk to him on a daily basis. She has to have buried him somewhere where she could move around in relative privacy, without anyone questioning where she was going." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "I found a work order for renovations to the house that coincides with the date in the diary, but it says only 'structural repair'—there's nothing specific as to what the work was or in what part of the house."

Sam handed the paper to Dean and took a sip of his coffee as his brother looked it over. "Her sons' journals make no mention of any renovations, but each writes, at various times, how their mother became more reclusive after Reginald's death, spending more and more time alone in her room."

"I think I have an—" Dean stopped talking as Eve showed up at the table with big platters holding fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy and, to Dean's apparent surprise, vegetables. He smiled at the waitress. "Looks incredible."

Sam nodded, sliding the diary out of the way. The dinner did actually look great; the food and the plates were hot and the vegetables were crisp and fresh, not the wilted mush that generally passed for veggies at most diners. "Looks great. Thanks."

Eve smiled at Dean. "Enjoy. Anything else I can do for you, just shout."

Dean grinned. "I'll keep that in mind." He stabbed a piece of broccoli suspiciously, then, once Eve was out of earshot, turned to Sam. "I found plans for the house at both the town records office and the Historical Society, but there are some discrepancies between the two. Based on what you've just said, one of those differences could mean something."

He shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, then reached into his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of papers and shuffling through them until he found the ones he was looking for. Unfolding them, he slid one across the table toward Sam. "Okay, this is the house in 1890, shortly after it was built." He unfolded a second piece of paper and placed it beside the first. "These are plans from 1937, shortly after Celia's death. Reggie and Celia's suite was on the third floor, right?"

Sam nodded.

Dean picked up his knife and fork. "Well, compare the layout in the two sets of plans."

Sam studied the papers. In the earlier drawing, the master suite of rooms consisted of the main bedroom, two dressing rooms and two studies. In the later version, one study had been converted into a bathroom, but the other no longer existed. "It looks like they knocked down the wall between the study and the dressing room and combined them into one large dressing room."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's what you're supposed to think. But check out the dimensions."

Sam looked from one set of plans to the other and his eyes widened. "There's almost a 100 square feet of space missing."

Dean smiled. "Yeah. In a house that big, apparently it's pretty easy to hide a ten-by-ten room—big enough for a private chapel or crypt, if that's what floats your boat."

Sam nodded, rubbing his temple absently as his headache spiked again. "This was some plan for Celia to pull off in secret."

Dean shrugged. "Money talks, Sammy, so people won't. And, from the sounds of it, Celia paid well." He frowned. "But why take the secret to the grave? If she went to all this trouble to be with Reggie, keep him close, wouldn't she want to be buried with him?"

Sam tapped the journal. "She thought she had that covered. It's all kind of cryptic but, from what I can tell, she arranged to be cremated so her ashes could be interred with Reginald."

Dean frowned. "How? If nobody knew about the crypt, who was supposed to put them there?"

"Her maid, Marie." Sam reached in his pocket, searching for painkillers, then remembered they were in the computer bag he'd thrown in the car on the way into the diner. "Marie was the one person Celia seemed to trust with all her secrets. Problem is, the two of them were killed in the same car accident so it never happened. Celia's ashes were interred in the family mausoleum as her will stipulated." He picked up the journal. "This is the only diary that makes any reference to moving Reginald, and the only one Celia refused to donate to the library. It was tucked inside the box of legal papers we got from Elliot. I don't think her lawyer had much interest in reading it so, until now, Reginald's crypt remained secret."

With this new information, the brothers began to work out their plan as they finished their dinner, quieting only when Eve approached the table. Her smile fell neatly between shy and seductive. "So, guys, how was your meal?"

Dean sat back in the booth and returned the brunette's smile, his grin widening as his eyes traveled from her pretty face down her curvy frame, lingering just a touch too long on the hint of cleavage teasingly revealed by her V-neck t-shirt. "It was…awesome."

Sam rolled his eyes. Subtle was not one of Dean's strong suits. He pushed his empty plate to the end of the table, then pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his headache would lift. "It was great, thanks, Eve. We'll take the check now."

The waitress pouted prettily. "No dessert?"

Dean's face fell too. "Yeah, Sammy, what about dessert? You know I love me some pie."

Sam shot a look at his brother, clearing his throat. "We're on the clock, Dean. We—"

"—still have time for pie. Job's waited this long. Another half-hour won't make a difference." Dean turned back to Eve, his smile widening. "What've you got?"

Eve's cleavage deepened as she leaned forward to refill Dean's coffee cup. "There's our famous deep-dish apple pie."

"Tempting." Dean's eyes flashed mischievously. "But somethin' tells me accepting apple pie from a girl named Eve is just askin' for trouble. What else?"

"There's cherry tart—and don't even go there." Eve laughed as she straightened up. "I think you might like the peach cobbler."

Dean grinned. "Sounds good. Two peach cobblers it is. With ice cream."

Sam shook his head. "Just one. I—"

"Two," Dean insisted, shooting a look at his brother. "Sam'll just end up eating half of mine if he doesn't get his own."

Sam glared but said nothing. Eve topped off Sam's cup. "Two peach cobblers it is." She smiled at Sam but, as before, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Trust me, it's really something."

She picked up their dirty plates and walked to the kitchen. Dean's eyes again traveled down her back, fully appreciating her assets, until Sam kicked him under the table. "Ow. What the hell was that for? It's just pie, Sam."

The clattering of spoon against cup as Sam stirred his coffee was a clear sign of annoyance, especially since he drank it black. "We need to take care of Reginald."

Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's hand. "Dude, it's coffee, not cement. You can quit stirrin' now." He pulled his hand away, staring intently at his brother as he sat back. "You get cranky like this when you're sick. You still hurting?"

Sam's headache was magnifying all the noises of the diner, the happy chatter, the silverware and glasses clinking, the bell that signaled an order was ready, all echoing loudly inside his skull. He sighed, putting down the spoon and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just my headache."

Dean studied Sam worriedly. "Maybe we should take you to the hospital. Maybe Reggie throwing you down the stairs did more damage than we thought."

Sam shook his head. "No. I don't need a hospital." He pushed himself out of the booth. "I'm just gonna go out to the car, grab the Tylenol. I'll be right back."

Dean leaned forward and grabbed his arm. "Hey. You sure that's all it is? We don't need to do this tonight if you're off your game."

"I'm fine." Sam smiled tiredly at Dean. "Just do me a favor? If you're thinking of hooking up with Eve when we're done, arrange to go back to her place, okay? My back's not up to sleeping in the Impala right now."

Dean glanced over to the counter where Eve was ladling scoops of ice cream onto their dessert. "Nah. Let's get the job done first." He shrugged. "Then we'll see. Take a couple of days off, just hang around here, relax…then maybe Eve and I can get a little somethin' goin' on." He grinned. "Pretty girls and pie, Sammy. Doesn't get much better for fixin' what ails you. Maybe she has a friend?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I can get my own dates, Dean."

Dean's eyebrows arched. "But you don't. That's the problem."

Sam shook his head. "I'll be right back."

He sighed as he made his way quickly out of the restaurant and across the parking lot. In some ways, he wished he could enjoy uncomplicated relationships like his brother. Dean never led a woman on; if she spent the night with him, she did so fully aware his interest was passion, not picket fences, and there was a good chance he'd be gone before morning. It didn't stop some women from hoping, but they were always disappointed.

He knew there was a part of Dean that craved a normal life, part that, if things were different, would love to settle down. But, as long as hunting was part of the equation, his brother would keep that part of him buried deep inside.

Sam was gone less than five minutes. When he pushed open the door to the diner, another chill ran down his spine. He glanced around and, again, nothing seemed out of place. Eve was chatting with a trucker a few booths down from their table, and Dean was already digging into his dessert. Sam blew out a breath and returned to his seat.

Dean motioned to Sam's dessert with his spoon. "Eve wasn't kidding. This stuff is awesome."

Sam smiled, dumping three pills from the bottle into his hand, tossing them in his mouth, and washing them down with a gulp of coffee. He looked at the dessert in front of him, the aroma of hot fruit and cinnamon tickling his nose. "Smells great."

Dean grinned. "Tastes even better. Dig in."

Fifteen minutes and another cup of coffee later, the brothers were finished their dinner. Dean headed off to the men's room while Sam paid the check. As Eve rang up their bill, she smiled up at Sam. "For someone who really didn't want dessert, you certainly cleaned your plate."

Sam startled. For the briefest of moments, the warmth disappeared from Eve's eyes and was replaced by what he could only describe as hate. It was gone as quickly as it appeared…if it had even been there at all. Sam's eyes narrowed, wondering if he was seeing things. "Dessert was great, thanks." He waved off her attempt to return his change. "Keep it."

She smiled, eyes flashing. "Thanks. Take care." To Sam, the double meaning to her words was clear.

Sam walked away from the counter without turning away from Eve, and bumped into Dean, returning from the men's room. His brother frowned. "Dude, watch where you're goin."

Sam watched Eve walk away and chat pleasantly with a young couple at the counter. "Sorry, it's just…"

"What?" Dean followed Sam's gaze. Eve looked up and gave Dean a seductive wink.

Sam shook his head. "It's, um, nothing…I guess."

"Good." Dean smacked him in the arm. "Come on. Now that we're fueled up, I gotta do the same for the car, then we're on our way."

Dean drove the Impala to the gas station across the street. A large motor home was parked in front of the pumps on the street side, forcing Dean to tuck around behind and pull up on the opposite side of the island. Sam stayed in the car, studying the plans of the Barnstable House while Dean filled up the tank, then went inside to pay. Sam glanced up just as the motor home pulled away, clearing the line of sight to the diner across the street. Movement caught his attention, and his eyes narrowed.

Eve was leaving the diner, in the company of an older man dressed in jeans, flannel shirt, and ball cap. Sam vaguely recalled seeing him in the diner earlier. Eve seemed upset, almost angry, and she turned away from the man and stormed across the parking lot. The older man jogged after her, grabbed her by the arm, and spun her around. She tried to pull away, but he refused to let go.

Despite the pit in his stomach he couldn't pin a cause on, Sam instinctively had his hand on the door, ready to see if she needed help, when the trucker pulled Eve toward him and wrapped her in a tight hug. Sam's confusion grew as, slowly, she returned the man's embrace and he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Sam's frown deepened. The man's actions weren't aggressive; they were almost fatherly.

Eve stepped back and nodded at the man. He wrapped his arm around her waist, guided her to the passenger side of his pickup truck, and opened the door for her. Once she was safely inside, he closed the door, exhaled noticeably, and walked around the back of his truck to the driver's side. He looked up briefly, and Sam caught a clear glimpse of his face. Sam shuddered, the same chill he'd felt at the diner once again racing up his spine.

Sam couldn't place the face but was convinced he'd seen the man before. He just had no idea where. Without really knowing why, he scrawled down the license plate number of the truck.

The driver's side door opened, hinges groaning loudly, and Dean slid inside. He glanced at his brother and frowned at the puzzled expression on his face. "Sammy?"

Sam watched the truck drive away.

Dean turned to follow Sam's gaze, then smacked his brother on the arm. "Earth to Sam? What?

As the truck disappeared down the road, Sam turned to Dean and shrugged. "Not sure. Could be something, could be nothing." He glanced down at the number he'd just scrawled at the top of the plans he'd been looking at. He ripped off the corner, folded the paper, and shoved it into his jeans pocket. "Just something to check into later."

Dean frowned. "Anything I should know about?"

"Just a bad feeling I got about a guy I saw in the diner." Sam cleared his throat. "Like I said, I'll check into it when we're done with Reginald. If it's anything, you'll be the first to know."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay then." He turned the ignition. "Let's go take care of Reggie."

xxxXXXxxx

The sun was low in the sky as the brothers walked up the steps to the Barnstable House. This time they each carried a shotgun and a sledgehammer. Dean had the duffel bag containing salt, crowbars, and anything else they thought they might need, slung over his shoulder. Sam carried a large battery-powered camping lantern since they were quickly losing daylight, and a can of gasoline.

Sam opened the front door, and Dean pushed past him, eyes darting around as he took his customary point position. He held his sawed-off shotgun at the ready in his right hand, the long-handled sledgehammer in his left. Sam pocketed the key, picked up the lantern and gas can he'd placed on the step while opening the door and followed him in, kicking the door closed behind him.

Dean scowled, using the back of his hand that held the sledgehammer to rub the bridge of his nose. "Third floor, right?"

Sam caught his brother's grimace but simply nodded. "Yeah. Double doors at the end of the hall."

"Right." Dean shook his head as he began clomping up the stairs. "Be sharp, Sammy. It won't take long for Reggie to figure out what we're up to." He stumbled, falling forward onto his knees and grabbing the railing to regain his balance.

Sam frowned worriedly. "Dean?"

Dean blew out a breath as he hauled himself up and adjusted the duffel on his shoulder. "Chill. I'm good. Load just shifted, that's all." He turned to flash Sam a smirk, then resumed climbing the stairs.

Sam watched him for a moment before following him. Their footsteps echoed eerily as they moved up the three flights of stairs, then walked along the third floor hallway to the double mahogany doors that led to what had been Celia and Reginald's suite. Dean pushed open the doors, coughing at the cloud of dust the movement created, and pointed to the wall at the far end of the room. "If Celia turned the study into a crypt, it should be over here."

Sam glanced around the room. It was impressive by any standards, even in its current neglected state. It was about 30 feet long and 25 feet wide. The walls, papered in deep burgundy stripes, rose 14 feet to an ornate coffered ceiling. Heavy damask drapes in the same jewel-toned burgundy as the wallpaper framed each of the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the oversized canopy bed.

A large marble fireplace was the centerpiece of the right wall of the room, fronted by a once elegant settee, chairs, and coffee table, all now partially hidden under large white dust sheets. According to the plans they'd studied, the door to the left of the fireplace led to what had been Celia's dressing room, the door to the right to the study converted into a bathroom.

At the left end of the room, double doors were centered in the wall, flanked by matching dressers. Sam followed Dean across the room, their own footprints from their previous visit still visible in the heavy dust that coated the wide plank wood floors.

Dean allowed the duffel to slide off his shoulder and drop to the floor. He tossed his sledgehammer on top of the bag, then stepped forward and pulled open the dressing room doors. Walking into the room, he whistled. The room was about fifteen-foot square, each wall lined in cedar shelves, drawers, and clothing rails that offered enough space to accommodate the entire inventory of a good-sized boutique.

Dean shook his head. "Damn, Sam. This closet is bigger than most motel rooms we stay in."

Sam smiled as he put the lantern and gas can on the dresser to the right of the doors and followed Dean into the dressing room. "Not everybody can fit their entire wardrobe in a duffel bag, you know."

Dean scowled at him. "Why not? How many pairs of jeans does a person need?"

Sam shook his head as studied the left wall, knowing the secret room, if it existed, lay behind it. He leaned the shotgun and sledgehammer against the shelves, and began opening drawers and tapping the back wall. "There has to be a hidden door here somewhere."

Dean rubbed his forehead in irritation as Sam searched. "This could take all night. I say we just sledgehammer our way in."

"Just give me a minute, okay?" Sam was reaching into his pocket for a lighter when Dean turned impatiently, stumbled, and fell into him. Sam arms shot out, catching his brother as he went down. "Whoa."

Dean pushed himself up, his hands fisting in Sam's jacket as he regained his equilibrium. "I'm good. Just lost my balance."

Sam's worry deepened. "That's twice, Dean…in the last 10 minutes."

Dean screwed his eyes closed, gave his head a shake, then pushed himself off Sam. "Weird."

Sam still held tightly to his brother's arms. His eyes widened as he felt Dean tremble in his hold and realized his breathing was fast and shallow. "What's goin on?"

Dean batted his brother's hands away, swaying slightly but remaining on his feet. "M'okay. Just a headache." He smiled nonchalantly. "Hope you left me some Tylenol."

Sam frowned. "That 'brave-little-soldier' bullshit works both ways, you know?"

"Sam." The growling tone in Dean's voice was a warning not to push it. "Stow the Flo Nightingale routine and find us a way into that room."

Sam's frown remained as he pulled out the lighter, flicked it on, and held it up against the wall, watching for any flicker that might indicate a draft and the presence of a door. There was nothing. He stepped back and studied the shelving that covered the wall. It was divided into three sections, the two outer ones featuring a clothes rail with two large drawers at the bottom and two open shelves at the top. The center section featured drawers at the bottom and shelves at the top. The top drawer was narrower than the rest and the only one that featured a keyhole. Sam gave it a tug; it was locked.

He stretched out his hand to Dean. "I need the lock pick."

"What?" Dean was staring at him puzzled, like he didn't understand the question.

Sam's eyebrows arched. "The lock pick. You brought it, right?"

Dean stared at Sam, uncomprehending, then his mind suddenly seemed to clear. "Um, yeah—it's right here." He reached for his back pocket, pulling out the lock pick set and handing it to Sam.

Sam took it but his eyes stayed on Dean. His brother was grimacing and rubbing his chest. "Dean?"

His brother looked up, waving his hand dismissively. "Must be comin' down with the flu or somethin'. What do you need the lock pick for?"

Sam motioned to the shallow drawer. "This was likely meant for jewelry. It was kept locked in case staff had sticky fingers but…" Sam slipped the picks into the lock, expertly pushing the tumblers into place. "…it also seems like the logical place to hide a lever to a secret door. Less chance of anyone pushing it accidentally."

The tumblers clicked, and Sam slid open the drawer. It was lined in rich claret velvet and divided into numerous compartments of various sizes. Sam put down the lock picks and reached in, but stopped when the temperature in the dressing room plunged suddenly. In one fluid move, he stepped back, grabbed for the shotgun he'd leaned against the shelves, and spun around.

Reginald's spirit materialized suddenly, storming into the room and charging right at Dean. The elder Winchester stumbled backward as the spirit came at him, raising his shotgun to defend himself, but his movements were uncharacteristically sluggish. Reginald barreled into Dean before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger, the blast of cold energy lifting the hunter off the floor and throwing him across the room. Dean crashed into the back wall, wooden shelves cracking and splintering under the force of the collision, and crumpled to the floor. His shotgun skittered across the hardwood, coming to rest in the corner.

Reginald's head whipped around, his rage now directed at Sam. But the younger Winchester had squeezed the trigger at almost the same moment the spirit had attacked Dean. The rock salt shot caught Reginald full in the chest as he turned, and he dissipated with a furious bellow.

Breathing hard, Sam's eyes jumped immediately to his brother.

Dean was still on the floor, conscious but dazed by the attack. He was slumped against the broken shelving, eyes hazy, breathing too rapid, as he struggled to push himself up. "Damn it—that hurt."

Sam was at his side seconds later, hands on Dean's shoulders, steadying him as he helped his brother sit up. "Take it easy. Anything broken?"

Dean screwed his eyes closed. "No. Help me up."

Sam hooked an arm around Dean, grunting as he helped haul him to his feet. Sam's arm stayed around his brother's waist until he was sure he was steady.

Dean wavered but stayed standing. He grimaced as he pushed himself away from Sam, stretching to unkink his back, which had taken the brunt of the attack. "You haven't found the door yet?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "I was a little distracted. You good?"

Dean nodded, and Sam turned back to the jewelry drawer. He slid his hand inside, feeling along the sides, top and back. As his hand reached the back, he turned to smile at Dean. "Got something." It was a small lever. When Sam pulled it forward, he heard a loud click and the whole section of shelving and drawers in the center of the wall slid forward until it cleared the shelves on either side. With a second click, it popped open, and Sam realized the whole section was hinged on the right side. He grabbed the shelf and pulled, and it swung to the side like a heavy door.

Sam swallowed. A hidden door was set in the wall behind it. He moved forward and turned the knob. It was stiff with disuse but opened with gentle force. The door swung inward with a creaking groan, but the room beyond was in complete darkness.

After retrieving his shotgun, Dean staggered up to the doorway. Sam turned back to the bedroom, grabbed the lantern then returned quickly to stand beside his brother. With a quick glance at Dean, he turned on the light and walked into the secret room for the first time. As the lantern lit up the space, his eyes widened.

Dean followed unsteadily. "Whoa."

The room looked like an antechamber of a large cathedral. It was windowless, with dark wooden panels lining the walls. A large stone crypt sat on a platform along the far wall, an ornate crucifix hanging above it and a vase of desiccated flowers sitting on top of it. The only other furniture in the room was a simple church pew that sat parallel to the crypt.

Dean shook his head. "Puts a whole new spin on skeletons in the closet."

Sam moved forward, setting down the lantern on the pew. "Come on. Reginald will be back. We need to get that crypt open."

Sam moved past Dean back into the bedroom, grabbed the duffel bag and gas can, then returned to the crypt. He unzipped the bag, pulled out two crowbars, and handed one to his brother.

Dean took it, swallowed hard, and stumbled to the side of the crypt, propping up his gun against the wall. Sam tracked Dean worriedly. Something was definitely off with him. "Dean, you—"

"Sam." Dean scowled at his brother. "Like you said, Reggie'll be back. Let's do this."

Sam nodded, moving to the far end of the crypt and sliding the flat end of the crowbar underneath the stone lid. Dean did the same. With loud grunts, they shouldered the heavy piece of stone forward until it rested precariously on the edge.

Dean gave it one final shove and gravity took over. The stone lid tipped and fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, cracking into three pieces and sending up a thick cloud of dust.

Sam jumped back, coughing as he breathed in the dust and debris and dragging a hand over his stinging eyes. "Little warning would be nice." His chest tightened when he realized Dean was no longer standing. As the slab crashed to the floor, Dean had fallen back against the wall, slid down it and landed slumped in the corner. In the cloud of dust, he was really struggling to breathe, his hand rubbing against his chest as his face contorted in pain.

Sam stumbled over the broken pieces of stone to get to his brother, and crouched down beside him. "Dean?"

His brother blinked up at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I know you don't like fishing, Sammy, but give it a chance. You have to be quiet for one thing. If you and Dad can't talk, you can't bite each other's head off."

Sam frowned, his eyes glued to his brother. "What?"

Dean clutched again at his chest, his voice raspy. "Look, I know I gave you a hard time about your prom date, but she was way too low rent for you. What were you thinking?"

Sam's heart was hammering. "Okay, Dean. You're really scaring me now. What's goin' on?"

Dean's head rolled toward him, his eyes sliding back into focus. He looked around, confused, as if trying to figure out where he was. When his eyes settled on the crypt beside him, he relaxed slightly. "You torched Reggie yet?"

Sam rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, his brother's confusion and difficulty breathing worrying him far more than the likely return of a pissed-off spirit. "I think we should get you outta here. I can come back—"

"No." Dean shook his head vehemently. His eyes slid shut. "Torch the bastard. Then we go."

Sam's jaw clenched worriedly. He could argue with Dean or just get the job done, and he knew which would get them out of the house fastest. "Okay. But I want you to stay here, sit tight. I'll take care of Reginald, then we'll get you some help."

Dean was struggling to stand up.

"Dean." Sam gently pushed him back down. "Just stay here—can you do that?"

Dean nodded, and the sudden easy acquiescence ratcheted up Sam's worry.

Sam stood up, stepped away from Dean, and then up onto the platform holding the crypt and looked inside. The ornate coffin within was definitely that of a wealthy man. Sam reached down with the crowbar and forced open the lid. He nodded in satisfaction at the one-armed skeleton it held before stepping off the platform and crossing back to the duffel.

He turned toward Dean. "I don't know who John Doe was out at the cemetery but this is definitely Reginald. We can—" Sam's words trailed off as he watched Dean's eyes slide out of focus and listened to the harsh rattle of his labored breathing. "Dean? You still with me?"

Dean's eyes slid closed. "Dad, you gotta let him do this. Sammy just wants to be a normal kid for a while. I'll swing by Stanford, check up on him, make sure he's good…"

Sam, crouched beside the duffel, pulling out salt, and grabbing the gas can, froze at Dean's unguarded words. His brother's delirium offered a rare glimpse into the aftermath of his leaving for college. He'd never seen Dean checking up on him, but he also knew that if his brother didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be. There had been days at school when he could have sworn he sensed his brother's presence, but always dismissed it as wishful thinking. But if Dean's delirious ramblings were based in truth, then his brother had been off in the distance, watching over him then as he had been most of their lives.

Dean's cough spurred Sam into action. Right now he had to look out for Dean, and that meant getting rid of Reginald. He crossed to the casket, quickly salting the remains and dousing them in gasoline. He capped the gas can, stowed it beside the duffel, picked up his shotgun for reassurance and pulled his lighter from his pocket.

Sam had taken one step toward the crypt when, without warning, a blast of cold energy hit him hard from behind. He toppled forward, shotgun and lighter flying from his hands and head smacking hard against the edge of the stone platform that held the crypt. The blow opened up the cut from the previous day's attack and left Sam dazed and seeing double. He clumsily rolled over and his vision slid slowly into focus as Reginald's spirit lumbered toward him.

Sam's eyes darted round, searching for his gun. It lay on the floor about eight feet from him. He lunged toward it, but Reginald had seen it too and, this time, he was faster. The spirit smirked coldly and waved his hand; the gun slid across the floor, through the doorway and into the dressing room beyond.

In a blink, Reginald was beside Sam, grabbing him by the throat, pulling him to his feet and choking off all ability to breathe. Sam pawed helplessly at the ghostly hand around his neck, his vision blurring from lack of air. Reginald's voice was a deadly whisper. "How dare you trespass here. This is our sanctuary. You—"

The spirit's threat was cut off by a shotgun blast. Sam gasped loudly, suddenly able to breathe again, as he fell to the ground. He coughed as he looked up to see Dean still sitting in the corner, head leaning against the wall and smoking shotgun across his lap.

He nodded at Sam, eyes struggling to stay open. "Good. Got the right one." He waved his hand. "I was seeing two of 'em."

Unsteadily, Sam pushed himself to his feet and nodded at Dean. "Thanks."

Dean's eyes slid closed. "Wanna go home, Sammy. Super Bowl's on tonight."

Sam's jaw clenched as he searched for the lighter he'd dropped when Reginald attacked. "Super Bowl was four months ago, Dean," he muttered quietly. He spotted the lighter, grabbed it, and stepped up on the platform. He flicked on the lighter, locked the flame open and dropped it into the casket. The fire flared hot and bright, quickly consuming the earthly remains of Reginald Barnstable.

As the fire burned, contained within the stone crypt, Sam turned to Dean, his focus now solely on this brother. He didn't care about covering their tracks, collecting their supplies, or even if the whole damn house burned down: Dean needed help.

Sam staggered over to the corner and crouched down beside Dean. He gently pulled the shotgun from Dean's grasp and placed it on the floor. Then he slid an arm around his brother's back, draped Dean's arm around his neck and, with a loud grunt, hefted Dean to his feet. "Time to go."

"Go?" Dean looked around in confusion. "We gonna miss the Super Bowl?"

Sam fought to push back the steadily rising panic over his brother's delirium as he guided Dean out of the house, knowing their next stop was the hospital. "No, Dean. I promise. You won't miss the Super Bowl."

_**CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**SUMMARY**__: __What seemed like a routine hunt, leaves Dean fighting for his life and Sam frantically trying to figure out what happened. And when he does, it's a big shock to both brothers. Set late in Season 2, but before the deal. Hurt/comfort-Mystery, playing with a loose thread from canon._

_**DISCLAIMER**__: The characters of Sam & Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke who entertains us each week and graciously lets us play in his sandbox when he turns out the lights and goes home for the night. (Or we sneak in when he's not looking, I'm not sure which. *g*) Definitely for fun not profit._

_**RATING**__: T, for some language. Set late in Season 2, but before the deal._

**COUNTING COUP**

**CHAPTER 3**

Sam carded his fingers through his hair as he paced beside Dean's gurney. He shook his head incredulously. "So it _is_ poison?"

Dr. Peters nodded. "We believe so."

Sam looked down at his brother. Dean was unconscious now, his labored breathing still audible behind the oxygen mask, the bedside monitor showing his heart still beating much too fast. "How? How the hell was he poisoned?"

The doctor glanced from Sam to his patient. "We've ruled out inhalation or contact poisoning. All your brother's symptoms lead us to believe he's ingested something toxic. We've pumped his stomach, to make sure no more of it is absorbed by his system. The labs are running tests now on the stomach contents, and a sample of vomit from your car, to try to identify the specific toxin. Once we know what it is, we'll know how to treat him."

Sam's knuckles whitened as they gripped the gurney rail. "You can't give him something now, something to help him breathe better?"

Dr. Peters face was sympathetic. "One of the downsides of antidotes is they're designed to work with a specific poison. We give Dean something without knowing what the toxic substance is, the antidote would be, at best, ineffective, and at worst, equally toxic."

"I don't get it." Sam banged his fist in frustration on the safety rail of Dean's bed. "We ate the same things. Why is he sick and I'm not?"

Dr. Peters' eyes narrowed. "This may be difficult to hear, but is there anyone who might intentionally want to hurt Dean?"

"What?" Sam had considered the possibility briefly but dismissed it just as fast. Oh, Dean had plenty of enemies with motive, but poisoning wasn't the weapon of choice for demons, fuglies, or the FBI. "No. This doesn't make sense."

Amy, the nurse, appeared at the entrance to the exam room, then walked over to hand Sam a set of keys. "We moved your car around to the parking lot, locked it up tight like you asked." She held up a pair of sneakers then placed them on the floor in front of him. "And found these in the backseat, right where you said."

Sam closed his fist around the keys, forced his bare feet into the sneakers and nodded at Amy, then quickly turned back to Dean. "He doesn't sound good."

Dr. Peters smiled softly. "I know it's hard to see him like this, but we're doing everything we can to make him more comfortable until we can determine a course of treatment. If that means putting him on a ventilator, a machine to breathe for him, we will."

Sam tightened his grip on the Impala keys. "I've seen him on a vent before. After a car accident. It's something I hoped I'd never have to see again."

The doctor's reassuring smile faded. "Hopefully it won't come to that. Right now the oxygen by mask is doing its job—he's holding his own."

Amy rolled a stool beside Dean's gurney. "Why don't you sit down? You can stay here with your brother, at least until we get the lab results back."

Sam nodded, sinking slowly onto the stool, his fist clenching and unclenching around the keys as if hanging on tightly to that little piece of his brother could will Dean to hang on, too.

Dr. Peters checked Dean's vitals one more time, then glanced up at Amy. "I'm going down to the lab, see what they can tell me. Page me if there's any change."

Amy nodded, and the doctor disappeared down the hall. The nurse glanced from Sam to Dean. "You two are pretty close, huh?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled. "We're pretty good at pushing each other's buttons, driving each other crazy…" There was a barely noticeable catch in his voice. "But he's my big brother."

Amy nodded. "We'll do everything we can, Sam."

The phone on the wall in the cubicle rang, and the nurse moved across the exam room to answer it. "Yes." She turned to look at Sam, a puzzled expression on her face. "Yes, he is… No… I don't know, but I'll pass that along. Thanks, Heather."

She hung up the phone and turned to Sam. "That was reception. Apparently your uncle is there, asking how you are."

Sam frowned. He hadn't had a chance yet to call Bobby. How the hell had he found out Dean was sick?

Amy walked to Sam's side. "Look, privacy laws mean we're not allowed to give out patient information to anyone but immediate family. I think you should go out there and fill in your uncle. Somehow he's under the impression you're the one who's ill, that Dean brought _you_ in here."

"What? How would he—?" Now Sam was even more confused. Torn, he glanced from Dean to the hallway leading to the ER waiting room.

Amy offered a reassuring smile. "Dean's in good hands. If anything changes, I'll page the doctor, then have someone come find you right away."

Sam stood slowly, reaching over the railing to gently squeeze Dean's arm. "Just keep fighting this, okay? You can beat this."

Sam smiled tightly at Amy, then walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and scanned the waiting room. It was still busy, but there was no sign of Bobby. Puzzled, he walked over to the reception desk. "I'm Sam Young. I was told my uncle was looking for me, but I don't see him."

The receptionist looked confused. "He's right there, Mr. Young." She pointed toward the glass doors.

Sam turned and his chest tightened, the same chill that had traveled up his spine in the restaurant returning with vengeance. It sure as hell wasn't Bobby. It was the man from the diner, the one whom Eve the waitress had driven away with. He was standing beside the ER doors, talking on his phone and subtly scanning the faces in the waiting room, looking for someone. Sam didn't need two guesses to figure out whom.

It had been pure fluke he hadn't seen Sam enter, but Sam had no intention of hiding. As the man turned around, Sam stepped out into the open.

The movement caught the man's eye, and he looked up, jolting visibly when he realized it was Sam—and that Sam was staring right back at him.

He slammed shut his phone and darted for the doors all in one smooth movement. Sam sprinted across the waiting room after him, startling the patients but quickly gaining ground on the man. The stranger turned to the right the minute he was clear of the entrance.

The doors had just started to close again when Sam ran up to them, forcing him to turn sideways to squeeze through even as they began opening again. He swung to the right, following the path of the stranger, but quickly skidded to a halt. A large pickup truck, engine running, was directly in front of him. The man was now in the passenger seat, just slamming the door as Sam made eye contact.

With a squeal of tires, the truck lurched forward, directly toward Sam, high beams flaring and momentarily blinding him. Instinctively, he threw himself sideways but the truck had size and speed on its side. The left front bumper caught Sam's hip, hitting him with enough force to lift him off the ground and send him flying six feet through the air and straight into the glass ER door just as it was closing.

The glass shattered on impact. Momentum carried Sam through the door and into the ER waiting room. He hit the ground in a shower of safety glass, the screams of patients drowning out the squealing tires of the truck as it roared away. As consciousness faded, one image was burned clearly in Sam's mind: right before the headlights had flared, he had seen the face of the driver, pure hatred robbing it of all attractiveness.

It was Eve.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam startled awake, a jabbing pain in his hip causing him to inhale sharply.

"Hey, hey. Relax. You're safe now."

He blinked to bring his eyes into focus. He was back in the ER exam room, lying on a gurney now, Amy on one side of him, Dr. Chow on the other. Amy was wiping a cool cloth across his face; he frowned when she moved it away and he realized it was bloody. Sam swallowed, fighting nausea fueled by a vicious headache. "What's going on?"

"What do you remember, Sam?" This time it was Dr. Chow speaking.

He rolled his head toward the doctor, wincing at the stiffness in his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes and got a vivid image of a pickup truck, headlights flaring, slamming into him. It was followed by fuzzier memories of being thrown through the air and breaking glass raining down on him. He groaned. "A truck hit me."

"I'll say it did." Sam felt Dr. Chow gently pull open his eyelids and use a penlight to check his pupil reaction.

Sam scowled at the intrusive light. "Do you have to do that?"

Dr. Chow nodded. "'Fraid so. Okay, now I want you to follow my finger." Sam peeled open his eyes and followed along as she moved her finger up, down, then from side to side. "Good. Now, just for the record, what's your name?"

"Sam. Sam…Young." He shuffled on the gurney, wincing as pain once more spiked through his hip. His head rolled to the left, and he caught sight on Dean, still lying on the gurney in the adjacent exam room. "Dean. How is he?"

"Better. We identified the poison." The voice this time was masculine. Dr. Peters looked over at Sam from the far side of Dean's bed. "We've just started treatment. He's responding well. He's not out of the woods just yet, but his breathing has definitely improved." The doctor smiled.

Sam's brain was not quite firing on all cylinders but the meaning behind the doctor's words suddenly hit home. Treatment? "What— Ow." He scowled as Dr. Chow pulled aside the blanket and his hospital gown to examine his hip.

"Sorry." She smiled apologetically. "But first things first, Sam. X-rays show there are no broken bones, but the muscle bruising on your hip is deep. You're going to be uncomfortable for a while."

Sam glanced up at Dr. Chow as she tucked the blanket back in place. "X-rays? How long was I out?"

The doctor checked her watch. "Almost three hours. You can blame that on the concussion. We also put some stitches in your neck and in your shoulder to take care of some of the deeper gashes from the broken glass." She shook her head. "All things considered, for someone who was hit by a truck and thrown through a glass door, you're incredibly lucky."

Sam was only half listening. Even as his vision slid in and out of focus, he was concentrating on his brother in the adjacent cubicle.

Dean, now wearing a hospital gown, was still unconscious. An oxygen mask remained strapped to his face, but he seemed less flushed than before and his breathing was definitely less labored. A bag of blood now joined the saline solution hanging from the IV pole at the side of his bed. Both lines were taped to his left arm, the transfusion needle inserted just below his elbow, the saline solution into a catheter in the back of his hand.

Sam swallowed. "He looks…better."

Dr. Peters checked the readings on the monitor at Dean's bedside and nodded. "Like I said, identifying the poison was half the battle. Once we knew what it was, we were able to administer the antidote."

Sam's eyes snapped toward the doctor. "What was it?"

Dr. Peters' face was grave. "Cyanide."

Sam's eyes widened, a chill running through him. "Cya— How?"

Dr. Peters adjusted Dean's IV flow, then walked around the gurney to Sam. "Given the concentration of the dose, and the fact it was pharmaceutical grade, it seems certain he was poisoned intentionally. And, given somebody just tried to run you over in our parking lot, I'd say he's not the only one with enemies." He tapped his fist on the safety rail of Sam's gurney. "We've notified the police. They'll be here shortly."

Sam's eyes stayed glued to his brother, ignoring both his own injuries and the upcoming need to tap dance with local law enforcement. An image of Eve behind the wheel of the truck flashed suddenly through his head. She had driven the truck that hit him. But why? Why did she want to see him dead? And, if Dean was deliberately poisoned, did she have anything to do with that? He glanced up at the doctor. "Can you tell how my brother was poisoned?"

Dr. Peters reached for Dean's chart, flipped through the pages, then ran his finger down one of them. "The cyanide was heavily concentrated in peaches."

Sam's heart hammered against his chest. "We had peach cobbler for dessert." His eyes shot back to Dean. "We both did."

Dr. Peters' eyebrows arched. "If the poison was only in Dean's food, it seems to suggest it was a deliberate attempt to harm him."

Sam could see a hint of suspicion mingling with Dr. Peters' genuine concern, and he couldn't blame him for it. A poisoning and a hit and run within the space of hours raised all kinds of red flags.

Dr. Peters folded his arms across his chest. "The witnesses in the waiting room said that truck deliberately tried to run you down. Could the same person be responsible for both attacks?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "I don't know." He was damn sure Eve was behind both attempts on their lives but he needed to figure out why before he gave up that information to anyone.

Dr. Peters nodded slowly. "Well, hopefully the police will get you some answers. In the meantime, our job is to get the two of you well."

Dr. Chow closed the chart she had been filling out. "I'd like to admit you for the night, Sam, just to make sure there are no complications."

Sam glanced at the doctor, then turned back to watch the slow rise and fall of Dean's chest. "What about Dean? You're keeping him overnight, right?"

Dr Peters nodded. "At the very least. Cyanide is nothing to take lightly. It messes with you heart and your brain, stops your blood from being able to absorb oxygen…"

Sam's eyes widened.

Dr. Peters shook his head. "I'm not trying to scare you. From all the tests we've run, Dean is responding well. There's no reason to believe he won't recover fully. But his body's been through the wringer. It's going to take him a while to get his strength back. We just want to keep an eye on him while that happens."

"Thanks." Sam nodded at the doctor, then at Amy, his eyes glassy. "My brother…he's, um…" He laughed in an attempt to rein in his emotions. "He's the only family I've got."

Dr. Chow moved round to stand next to her colleague. "We'd like to get you up and moving around so you don't stiffen up completely. I'll send an orderly in to help you. Once we're sure you're steady on your feet, we'll also show you where the showers are; warm water will help relax you and get rid of any glass slivers from your fall through the doors."

Sam nodded, turning to Dr. Peters. "What about Dean?"

"We're gonna keep him under observation a little while longer, just until we're sure his vital signs are all near where they should be. Then we'll move him upstairs." Dr. Peters smiled. "In the meantime, I'm going to see if I can arrange a room for the two of you."

Sam smiled tightly as the two doctors left the room and walked down the hall. He rolled his head to stare again at Dean, grimacing as pain in his hip flared. His knuckles whitened as he clenched the safety railing on the gurney and tried to sort out everything that had happened. Who the hell was Eve? The strange hate vibes he'd picked up off her in the diner now seemed well-founded but she'd genuinely seemed to like Dean. Why would she want to poison him?

He turned suddenly toward the nurse. "Amy, is there someplace I can get an Internet connection?"

Amy nodded. "The cafeteria on the top floor is a wi-fi zone. And there are some patient-use computers in the sixth floor lounge."

Sam's focus stayed on Dean. "Good. I need to, um, I need to send some e-mails. Let my uncle know what happened. Let him know we're all right."

Amy smiled. "Okay. Once you're showered and changed, I'll take you up to the lounge. It'll be in a wheelchair, I'm afraid. The computer chairs will do your hip no favors…and a half-hour, tops. You need to rest."

Sam nodded. "Half-hour's good." He turned to face her. "My dirty clothes, where are they?"

Amy frowned. "Down at the lab, I think. They don't need them any more, I'm just not sure what kind of shape they'll be in."

Sam's voice was hard. "I don't give a damn what they do with the clothes, but there's a piece of paper in the pocket of my jeans. I need it back."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam limped across the hospital room as Dean played with his oatmeal, repeatedly picking up a spoonful of the thick cereal, then allowing it to plop back into the bowl.

"Dean, stop it."

Dean looked up. "What else am I supposed to do with it? They sure as hell can't expect me to eat it."

It was now day three of Dean's hospital stay. He was weak and cranky but well on the road to recovery. If all went according to plan, he would be released later in the day.

Sam had been released after one night in the hospital with a prescription for muscle relaxants, an appointment with the physical therapist, and the address of the local police station where he was to file a statement on both his hit-and-run and Dean's poisoning. The first two he kept; the latter he surreptitiously dropped into a hallway trash can.

He'd been co-operative but vague when the cops had visited him in his hospital room. Bobby, role-playing as an FBI agent interested in the case because the MO was similar to an attack in California, had helped divert suspicion from the brothers. The officers had pledged to investigate thoroughly, but Sam had every intention of taking care of things himself.

After his release papers were signed, he'd alternated between sitting in a sleeper chair at Dean's bedside, pacing around the room to ease the muscle spasms in his hip and, now that he had his own computer, sitting in the cafeteria wearing out its keys and the buttons on his phone, until Dean regained consciousness.

The first time Dean woke up, he had been less than coherent. Dr. Peters had assured Sam it was to be expected, and that the next time he would see a big improvement.

Later that first day, Sam had been walking down the corridor toward Dean's room, returning from another Internet research session, when he'd heard his brother loudly demanding to know where Sam was.

He'd limped quickly into the room to find Dean struggling to sit up, the nasal canula that had replaced the oxygen mask abandoned on top of the blanket, and a petite blonde nurse trying her best to corral his angry brother.

"Dean, chill. I'm fine."

Dean looked up, relaxing visibly as Sam walked into the room, then tensing again as he took in his brother's battered face and obvious limp. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sam smiled apologetically at the nurse. "Just making some phone calls. Letting Bobby know you're doing better, for one."

Dean sank back against his pillow, but his eyes stayed glued to Sam. "I meant why do you look like road kill?"

Sam sighed. "I'm okay. You're the one we're worried about."

Dean shot a glance at the nurse as she efficiently checked his vitals, then turned back to Sam. "The, um, _renovations_ didn't go quite like we planned, huh?"

"You could say that."

Dean's jaw clenched. "We finish the job?"

Sam nodded. "Elliot was surprised, to say the least, by the, um, unexpected problems we encountered." He frowned as Dean batted away the nurse's attempt to replace the oxygen canula. "But he'll take care of the clean up…and, I know you'll like this part, a bank draft arrived by courier this morning. We're paid in full."

Dean smiled tiredly. "Now that's the kind of news I like to wake up to."

The nurse, Shelly according to her nametag, straightened Dean's blankets. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly. Please try not to get yourself too worked up. You've been through a lot. You're doing great, but you just need to take things slow."

Dean nodded but said nothing until she left the room. Then he turned to Sam, eyes wide. "You wanna fill me in on how the hell I ended up in here?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I've got next to nothing between filling my car up with gas and right now."

Sam swallowed, limping stiffly to Dean's bedside. "You were poisoned."

"Right." Dean snorted, waiting for the punchline. He frowned when none came. "Poisoned?"

Sam nodded. "At the restaurant. Your food was spiked."

Dean considered the information for a moment, then looked up at Sam. "It was the broccoli, wasn't it?"

"Dean!" Sam's eyes blazed, guilt quickly turning to fear-fuelled anger. "You got dosed with cyanide. Someone tried to kill you." Sam turned away, fighting to keep his emotions under control. His voice was barely audible. "Almost succeeded, too."

Dean's eyes stayed on his brother. "Cyanide?"

Sam nodded, moving back to the side of Dean's bed. He sighed. "In your pie, if you must know."

Dean stiffened, his knuckles whitening as his hand fisted in the blue blanket. "The peach cobbler?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, frowning at the sudden shift in Dean's body language. His brother had quickly moved from surprise to anger, and was now well on his way to fury. "The poison was in the peaches."

Dean's eyes locked on Sam. "What about you? Your food spiked, too?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Just yours"

Dean's eyes stayed on Sam, his fist clenching and unclenching in the blanket. "Who did it?"

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, turning to glance out the window on the far wall. "Everything points to Eve, the waitress."

"Eve?" Dean's eyebrows peaked in surprise. "Why the hell would Eve want to poison…me? She some run-of-the-mill whack job, or is there something more?"

Sam exhaled loudly, raked his fingers through his hair, then turned to limp over to the window. He pulled down the slats of the blind, staring unseeingly at the hospital grounds beyond. "Oh, definitely something more."

Dean frowned as he followed his brother's actions. "Okay. Since you obviously know something, spit it out."

Sam swallowed. "Remember the weird vibe I was picking up on when we were in the diner?"

Dean nodded.

"It happened again at the gas station." Sam turned to face Dean. "Eve left the restaurant with an older guy I'd seen earlier. They were arguing about something. I thought he was causing trouble, but then he gave her a hug, they got into his truck and left."

Dean frowned. "Not exactly highly suspicious behavior."

Sam shrugged. "I know. The guy seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him. I wrote down his license plate number anyway."

Dean nodded slowly, thinking back to Sam's unease at the diner and later at the gas station. "This is the 'might be something, might be nothing' you were talking about in the car?"

Sam nodded.

Dean shook his head. "Damn it, Sammy. You really gotta start trusting your spidey senses. Who is he?"

Sam shuffled uncomfortably, guilt again clearly painted across his face. He blew out a breath, squared his shoulders, and met Dean's questioning stare. "His name is Frank Wandell."

Dean's voice was cold. "Wandell. As in…"

Sam nodded. "Steve Wandell. He's the older brother of the hunter I killed."

"Sam." There was a warning growl in Dean's voice. "We're not doin' this again. _You_ did not kill Steve Wandell."

Sam's jaw clenched. "As far as his family is concerned, I did. Mine is the only face they've got."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Family? So Eve…"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Eve is Steve Wandell's daughter. .." He blew out a breath, carding his fingers through his hair as he paced the room. "From what I've been able to dig up, she started hunting with her uncle shortly after her father was killed." He turned to face Dean. "Looks like they've been tracking us, too. Over the past month, our paths have crossed too often for it to be a coincidence. They've always been just a day or two behind us."

"Until this job." Dean mentally sifted through all the new information. He shook his head. "You pegged it, Sammy. You said we're not exactly on the top of most people's 'Who You Gonna Call' list."

Sam nodded. "Instead of taking the Barnstable job themselves, they told Elliot to contact Joe Sullivan, knowing he had a broken leg and would throw the gig to Bobby, who'd toss it our way. Then they just set up shop to wait for us to take the bait." Sam's eyes were glassy. "God, Dean. I'm sorry."

Dean scowled. "What the hell for?"

Sam looked at the wall. "They came after you to get to me. Eve lost someone close to her, so she wanted me to watch you die."

"You give her too much credit, Sam," Dean said quietly, his eyes flashing. "She was after you, not me. It was revenge—plain, simple and ugly."

Sam frowned. "It wasn't my food that was poisoned."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, it was. You said it was the peaches, right?"

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed. "Eve brought the dessert over while you went to get pills from the car." He shrugged. "She gave you a bigger helping—I swapped 'em when she moved on to the next table."

Sam froze. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "Did it all the time when we were kids. Hard habit to break." He flashed a sardonic smile. "Guess I learned my lesson, huh?"

Sam failed to see the humor. "You almost died, and you're joking about?"

"Well, I didn't die. And, if it comes down to that, I'm glad it was me, not you." Dean leaned forward. "But those bastards are gonna keep trying, Sammy. They gotta know by now they failed."

Sam nodded, guilt taking an even tighter hold now he knew that Dean had, figuratively, taken a bullet meant for him. "Frank Wandell showed up at the hospital, tried to bluff his way into getting medical infor— Damn it."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Wandell asked how I was, not how you were." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "You didn't get sick until after we left the diner, so he had no way of knowing they'd poisoned you, not me…not 'til I came walking 'round the corner of that waiting room, anyway."

Dean scowled. "When was this?"

"Yesterday, few hours after I brought you here."

"And?" Dean pressed for more details. "You get him?"

Sam blew out a breath and shook his head. This was the part he was dreading. "There was a pickup waiting outside. Frank jumped into it, Eve was behind the wheel, and…she drove it right at me."

Dean's eyes flashed angrily as he took in Sam's limp and the cuts on his face with a fresh perspective. "So the mess you are now, that was her, not our tangle with Reggie?"

Sam nodded.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean threw back the covers and began ripping off the tape holding his IV lines in place as he swung his legs over the side.

Sam moved in quickly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dean glared at Sam. "I'm goin' after the Wandells. Teach 'em you don't mess with my brother and walk away un-bloodied."

"Dean, stop!" Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulders and pushed his back onto the bed, amazed at how easy a task that was. "You're in no shape to go after them yet. I know we can't just let this go, that'll they'll just keep coming after us, coming after me, if we do, but we've gotta be smart about this."

Sam could feel Dean shaking with rage. "They're hunters. They know the world we live in, how things operate. Hell, they even knew the alias we were using when we checked in here. You barge in without a plan, and they're not the only ones who are gonna get bloody."

Dean glowered at Sam but said nothing. The muscle along his jaw clenched visibly.

Sam could handle Dean's anger, but he couldn't handle his silence. "Say something."

Dean continued staring at his brother. "You track 'em down?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah…then they moved on again. They'll be harder to find now, knowing they're in our sights, but I can find 'em."

"I know." Dean pulled himself back into bed with a groan. "Okay, here's the deal. I'll stay put 'til the docs spring me or you find the Wandells, whichever comes first." He glared at his brother. "And no stall tactics—I know just how good your Google-fu is."

Sam nodded. It was a reprieve, and he took it.

But a day and a half later, as he watched Dean play with his oatmeal, Sam knew he'd delayed as long as he could. "I found the Wandells."

Dean dropped the spoon in the dish and pushed the tray table out of the way. "Where?"

Sam limped up beside him. "A small town two states over. Just checked in—paid for two nights."

Dean nodded and threw back the covers. "Good. Pass me my clothes and let's hit the road."

Sam shook his head. "The doctor's coming in a few minutes. Just let him give you the okay, make sure—"

"No." Dean moved slowly toward the closet where he knew Sam had stashed clean clothes, and winced as he pulled the IV catheter out of the back of his hand. "No more stalling." He pulled out the small duffel and threw it on the bed. Yanking off the hospital issue shirt, he pulled on a plain black t-shirt. Jeans then replaced scrub pants, and he slipped his feet into thick socks and his boots.

As he dressed, he looked up at Sam. "Speaking of stalling, why'd you think it took four visits to the diner before Eve poisoned the food? She could have done it any of those other times."

Sam shook his head. "She was waiting for Frank, I think. He didn't show up until the day you were poisoned. Maybe he had the cyanide, maybe she needed a push from him to actually go through with it—"

Dean scoffed. "Come on, she didn't need a push to try to mow you down with that truck." He scowled as he looked from his duffel around the room. "Where's my stuff?"

Sam knew exactly what he meant. "Coat pocket."

Dean reached for the coat, stuck his hand in the pocket, and pulled out a small plastic bag containing his ring, his watch, and his amulet. The amulet went on first, his fist closing around it briefly before he slipped it inside his shirt. With ring and watch in place, he grabbed his bag and turned to Sam. "Let's go."

Sam swallowed. "Dean—"

Dean shook his head. "No, Sam. I'm putting an end to this. Lying in that bed gave me time to think. Now I know exactly what I need to do."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam checked his watch. Dean had been gone all night.

He limped across the room, thumb sliding reflexively across the keypad of his phone and pausing repeatedly over the redial key. He crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes, scanning the parking lot and the road beyond. It was early morning, and there was still no sign of Dean or the Impala.

Sam released the drapes, turned back to the room, and sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing at the pull on his injured hip. He dropped the phone beside him and leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingers raking through his hair.

Sam knew Dean had a plan, knew Dean was angry, and those two things were a dangerous combination. Despite what they did for a living, Sam knew Dean wouldn't kill humans unprovoked. But he also knew the Wandells were more than capable of provoking his brother.

They'd driven all day after leaving the hospital and checked into a small motel one town over from where the Wandells were staying. After throwing their stuff into the room, Sam had tried to break through the walls Dean had put up since leaving the hospital.

"We have to talk to her."

Dean scowled. "What?"

Sam exhaled audibly. "Eve. Despite what she's done, she's just as much a victim in this as we are."

Dean shook his head. "No. She crossed the line from victim to fair game when she poisoned your food and tried to run you down. I can't let that go. I won't."

Sam sat down on the bed, facing Dean. His voice was quiet but steady. "You can't ignore what started this. I killed her father."

Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "I'm getting tired of saying this, Sam. _You_ didn't kill anyone."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "That's not how she sees it. Her dad is dead, and my face is on tape killing him."

"We destroyed that tape."

Sam shook his head. "Not irreparably."

Dean stalked across the room until he was standing right in front of his brother. "She's a hunter, Sam. Her father was a hunter. Her uncle's a hunter—she knows about demons and possession, she knows about shapeshifters."

Dean's anger was barely contained. "Say she did see the tape. Sam Winchester, a guy who spends his life hunting evil, suddenly kills a good guy and that doesn't send up any red flags? They just decide to take you out?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, staring at his hands. "You didn't even wanna tell Bobby what happened, and he knows me. All the Wandells know is I killed someone they care about."

Dean sat on the edge of bed, opposite Sam. "Why are we having the conversation? Huh? Because you see Eve as a victim. Well, you're a victim too. But they don't wanna see that. They don't even wanna acknowledge the possibility. They just want revenge."

Sam's voice was quiet, hazel eyes clearly reflecting tormented emotions. "I hate what she did to you, but we don't kill people."

"Exactly." Dean stood up. "That's the difference between hunters and killers—and the Wandells crossed that line. And they're gonna keep tryin', Sam. I'm sure as hell not gonna stand around and do nothing 'til they succeed." He turned, grabbed his keys from the dresser and headed for the door.

Sam stood up. "Dean, wait—"

"No." Dean paused, his back to Sam, hand on the doorknob of the motel room door. "I've gotta take care of this. You took care of me, made sure I pulled through—now it's my turn." He pulled open the door, paused for a moment but didn't look back. "You trust me, Sam?"

Sam didn't hesitate. "You know I do."

Dean lowered his head, exhaling audibly. "I'll be back…but don't wait up for me." He pulled the door closed after him.

The sound of the Impala's throaty rumble jolted Sam into action. He crossed the room and yanked open the door in time to see the Impala drive across the parking lot, turn left, and disappear down the road.

That had been almost 14 hours ago.

Sam hadn't slept since Dean left. He'd surfed the net, tracking the Wandells' movements, and called Dean's cell repeatedly, each time the call going straight to voicemail. Numerous times, he'd had the door open, ready to hotwire a car and follow Dean but, each time, his brother's simple question stopped him: "Do you trust me?" He did, with his life, and Sam was placing his trust in him now.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, Sam glanced down at the scar on his right arm. The binding link that had locked Meg inside him had faded, but the burn that had broken the lock was still clearly visible. He ran his thumb over the raised scar tissue, swallowing against rising nausea as the pain and confusion of his possession flooded back.

The memory of killing Steve Wandell was razor sharp, the image of a knife in his hands slicing open the hunter's neck still fueling nightmares.

He was a little fuzzier on Meg's torture of Dean. The bruises to his brother's face and the bullet wound were obvious, but there were other injuries, too, that Dean had tried to hide.

When Dean had been felled by a dizzy spell shortly after leaving Bobby's and Sam had worriedly checked him over, he found a welt under Dean's hair on the right side of his head. It was older than the facial bruises but still large enough to tell Sam he'd been hit hard, and by something heavier than a fist. And he knew he was the cause.

Dean had tried to dismiss it but, when Sam persisted, his brother had grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, eyes flashing with anger, pain, and frustration. "Drop it, Sam. None of this is your fault. None of it."

Part of him knew Dean was right, that Meg had been at the controls. But, despite their conversation before Dean left, Sam couldn't help but be racked by guilt, couldn't help but see things from Eve's perspective. His was the only face she had for her father's killer; if the positions were reversed and a possessed Eve had killed his dad or Dean, Sam honestly didn't know if he could separate logic from emotion.

The motel room door opened suddenly and Dean walked in. Sam stood quickly, scanning his brother from head to toe in search of any new cuts or bruises, any blood or injuries that suggested his brother had been in a fight or confrontation. There were none. Dean looked tired, but no more so than he had when he'd left fourteen hours earlier. "You okay?"

"Fine." Dean nodded curtly, walking across the room to grab his duffel which he'd never really unpacked. "You ready to go?"

"What? But—"

Dean was already moving toward the door.

Sam grabbed his stuff—also never unpacked—and limped after him. His curiosity was getting the better of him. "What did—?"

"Not now, Sammy. Let's get the car loaded." Dean headed back to the parking lot, leaving the door open behind him.

Part of Sam wanted to grab his brother and shake the answers out of him, find out what he'd done, but he knew the more he pressed, the less likely Dean was to open up. _Not now_ was Dean-speak for he would talk about it, but in his own time and under his own terms. Sam would just have to be patient.

He picked up his phone and shoved it into his pocket before giving the room a cursory glance to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything. Then, satisfied, Sam shouldered his duffel and computer bag and headed for the car.

Dean already had the trunk open when Sam got there. Sam tossed in his duffel beside his brother's, then limped around to the passenger side and folded himself carefully into the front seat as Dean slammed the trunk shut.

Sam was reaching over to place his computer bag on the back seat as the hinges of the driver's side door groaned loudly and Dean slid behind the wheel. He reached forward to put the key in the ignition, then thought better of it and sat back.

Sam shifted in his seat to face Dean. "What's going on?"

Dean said nothing but reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. Sam frowned. It wasn't Dean's phone; in fact, he'd never seen it before.

Dean scrolled through the directory, found the number he wanted, and hit Send. He also pressed speaker so Sam could hear both ends of the conversation, holding the phone between the two of them.

"_Uncle Frank? You're late."_ The voice on the other end was Eve.

Sam's heart started racing as he stared wide-eyed at his brother.

Dean's falsely cheery tone was downright scary. "I'm afraid Uncle Frank might be a while. He's a little, um, tied up."

There was a pause as Eve tried to cover her surprise. _"Dean."_

"The one and only. You and I were getting along so well—why'd you run off?"

Eve's voice quickly became cool and calculated, with no trace of the bubbly personality she'd employed while posing as a waitress. _"I heard you were under the weather."_

Dean's voice was icy now. "Yeah. I ate something that disagreed with me."

"_Yes, I heard you were collateral damage. But you're feeling better now?"_ Eve made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

"Much."

"_And Sam?"_

Dean glanced at his brother. "Sam's just fine…and he's gonna stay that way, if you know what's good for you."

Eve laughed. _"Tough talk for a guy almost taken out by a bowl of peach cobbler. I'd be careful what you ate from here on in."_

Dean leaned closer to the phone. "Oh, it's not me who needs to be careful. I've got Sam watching my back. He's pretty damn good at it, too. Can you say the same about dear ol' Uncle Frank? Oh, wait, he's trying to pick his way out of his own handcuffs right now." The silence at the other end of the phone widened Dean's smile. "Course, if he did something about that snoring, it might be a little trickier for someone to sneak up on him."

The silence continued as the implications of Dean's jibe set in. When she spoke, Eve's voice was still cool, but her bravado was fraying a little at the edges. _"Thanks for the head's up—I'll pass that along."_

Dean's eyes glinted coldly. "Now don't be too hard on him. Snoring seems to run in the family. Really not an attractive trait, Eve. Maybe you should try those nasal strips—I hear they work wonders."

Sam's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs at that one, and Eve gave up all pretenses at civility. _"You pervert. You get off on watching a girl sleep? They arrest people for that, you know."_

Dean snorted. "Give it your best shot, sweetheart. I just hope they don't put you in the cell next to mine when they toss your ass in jail for poisoning me and running down Sam. Your snoring's really somethin', and I need my beauty sleep."

"_Cops like proof,"_ Eve spat out_. "You have—"_

"…some right here." Dean tapped a paper bag sticking out of his jacket pocket. "A little vial of cyanide you used to poison me, one that has your fingerprints all over it." He shook his head, offering an exaggerated _tut-tut_. "Uncle Frank may have burned your waitress uniform, tossed the ashes in the dumpster, but, surprise, surprise, the glass vial in the pocket of your apron survived. Rookie move, Eve."

Eve's voice was venomous. _"Picking through trash, Dean? I think you've found your true calling."_

Dean's eyes flashed. "Ouch. No need to get nasty. You really don't want me as an enemy. Oh, wait—too late."

For the first time, there was vulnerability in Eve's voice_. "That line was drawn when your brother killed my father."_

Dean saw Sam blanch. He leaned in closer to the phone, his voice deadly. "Now let's get this straight, once and for all. Sam did not kill your father. A demon did. My brother was possessed. He's as much a victim in this as you are."

Once again there was silence on the other end of the phone as that new information hit home.

Dean swallowed, fighting to keep his cool. "I wish to hell it hadn't happened, for both our sakes, but it did, and I can't change that. What I can change is your future. You go about your business, leave my brother alone, and this little piece of evidence stays locked up, nice and safe. I find out you're tracking us again, or trying to hurt Sam in any way, and the Edgeport police are gonna get an anonymous delivery that's gonna put you on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Trust me, it's not a fun place to be."

Eve's voice was cold. _"You're bluffing. You have far more reason to stay clear of the cops than I do."_

Dean shrugged. "Cops would never know it came from me. But, hey, I don't need the cops to take care of this. We tracked you down once—I got close enough to know you didn't finish your glass of water last night, you're on chapter fourteen of the book you're reading, and the pink tank top of your PJs says 'Naughty is nice.'" His voice hardened. "Trust me, the next time I get that close, I'm gonna go way past 'naughty.' Are we clear?"

There was silence, then a dial tone as Eve hung up.

Dean looked at Sam and smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."

Sam shook his head, his eyes wide. "You were busy last night."

Dean snapped shut Frank Wandell's phone, turned it over, and pulled out the chip. He rolled down the window, tossing the chip into the bed of the pickup truck parked beside them, then shrugged as he wound up the window. "After lying around in the hospital all that time, I had a lot of energy to burn off."

Sam's eyebrows arched incredulously. "I can't believe you found the cyanide vial. That was…"

"…a Vegas-caliber bluff." Dean smiled as he turned the ignition and backed the car out of its parking space. "I eavesdropped on Eve and Frank for most of last night. At one point, he told her to quit worrying, he'd taken care of everything, disposed of all the evidence. I checked out the dumpsters he'd used, but trash collection was yesterday morning. If there was anything useable, it's buried somewhere in the county landfill." His smile widened as he turned out of the parking lot onto the road and reached down to turn up the music. "But Frank and Eve don't know what time I rolled into town. If they choose to believe I found something, I'm not gonna set 'em straight."

Sam shook his head at his brother's con. "If your endgame was to rattle her, it worked."

"Like marbles in a can." Dean glanced at Sam. "And, by the way, they really do snore like chainsaws—both of 'em."

Sam's eyes stayed fixed on Dean. "You took a big risk. I wish you'd told me what you were doing. I could've watched your back." He smiled softly. "I hear I'm pretty good at it."

Dean returned his smile. "You are." His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "But it's my job to keep you safe. When she came after you…" His jaw clenched as he fought to swallow his rising anger.

Sam studied his brother carefully. "It's a two-way street, Dean. We look out for each other."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Sam was no longer the little boy their father had charged him with protecting. He was a grown man, a skilled hunter and Dean's equal in almost every way, his better in some. But the instinctive need to watch over his brother, avenge any threat against him, was hard-wired into him, and that wouldn't change no matter how big or how old Sam was.

"I had to do this, Sammy, for me and for us." Dean glanced at his brother. "I've given Eve her chance. She needs to move on, let this go."

Sam stared out the window at the road rushing by them. "And if she doesn't?"

Dean shrugged. "We'll blow up that bridge when we come to it."

Sam nodded, then glanced at the paper bag sticking out of Dean's jacket pocket. He grabbed the bag and pulled it open. "So if this isn't evidence…" His eyebrows arched incredulously when he pulled out a shiny red apple. "Seriously?"

Dean smiled. "I left one on her nightstand."

"An apple for Eve?" Sam shook his head. "How…biblical."

Dean shrugged. "She started it, with this whole eye-for-an-eye vengeance thing. I just wanted to let her know if she's tempted again, there are…consequences."

Sam bit back a smile. "I'm impressed. You're usually not so…subtle."

Dean feigned hurt as he reached over and snatched the apple from Sam. "I can be subtle…when I want to." He took a big bite of the apple, then grinned. "I just usually don't want to." He looked down at the apple. "I like these better when they're baked inside a pie." He grinned over at Sam. "What say we find ourselves a diner and get ourselves some apple pie?"

Sam's eyes widened. "I'd have thought the last few days would have turned you off pie—at least for a while."

"Bite your tongue, Sammy." Dean took another big bite of the apple as he put his foot down on the accelerator. "Don't think I'll be ordering cobbler any time soon, but I'm _always_ gonna love me some pie."

_**Finis**_

_**A/N: **__I was always intrigued by Bobby's warning at the end of Born Under a Bad Sign that Steve Wandel's hunting buddies might be out for revenge. When the show didn't pick up that thread, I decided I would. Hope you enjoyed._

_For those unfamiliar with the term Counting Coup, it's a native American custom where a warrior either sneaks into his enemy's camp and simply touches him while he's sleeping before leaving a trinket to prove he was there and sneaking out again, or touches him on the battlefield before escaping alive. It proves that if he wanted to kill his enemy, he could – even if he chose not to. It sounded to me like something Dean Winchester would do if Sam was threatened by humans. Thanks so much for reading and I'd love to hear from you. Until next time, cheers._


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